


The Brick Wall Job

by HonestBee



Category: Leverage
Genre: Action, Adventure, Angst, Eliot's past, Family, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HonestBee/pseuds/HonestBee
Summary: One hard-headed hitter, determined to go it alone. Four very stubborn thieves, determined to save him from himself. A handful of old allies who are Not Amused. A handful of old enemies crawling out of the woodwork. One priceless, possibly cursed, monkey statue. Eliot receives news that makes his blood run cold.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New year, new story! Not much action to start, and updates may be a little sporadic due to the need to maintain a "real life" but this story will never be abandoned. I just needed to post this chapter to get some momentum going.
> 
> There will be a lot of team-as-family love and maybe a few traces of Parker/Hardison and even fewer traces of Nate/Sophie, all cannon, but romance is definitely _not_ the focus.
> 
> Warnings:
> 
> Later chapters will have some violence, language in context, yelling, angst, tears, etc...Most things will be at the level of any Leverage episode for now, but any specific chapter that I think warrants a stronger warning will be noted, and tags added.

Drinking oneself into oblivion was not guaranteed to keep the nightmares away, and it certainly never led to a pleasant morning. Case in point, _this_ morning, where Nate tried desperately to drift back to sleep despite the pounding of his carefully-stationary head and the sensation that something small and furry had died and was rotting away in his mouth.

Nate sometimes wondered, in his more drunken-philosophical moments, if Eliot had ever learned this lesson the hard way, and taken it well to heart, or if he was simply strong enough not to have tried it in the first place. Either way, Nate had never seen the man exhibit anything more than mild hangover symptoms, and that only if heavy drinking was required for a con. But as far as Nate was concerned, Eliot had every right and reason to tie one on whenever he wanted.

It was mornings like this, after a con that had almost turned tragic, after Nate would pointedly glue himself to a barstool to brood on the "almost" part while his team chose to celebrate the "didn't" part, that he truly envied whatever coping mechanisms the others had that let them avoid this run-over-by-a-bus morning after.

Oh, he hadn't _intended_ to spend the night drunkenly brooding, alone again. Sophie had pointedly left early ( _Home. To my_ own _apartment_ ) when Nate had pointedly ignored her pointed looks as he ordered his second round. He was vaguely aware of Eliot leaving not long after with some leggy blonde, and of Parker and Hardison dissolving into smiles and giggles at a booth in the corner. Nate told himself he was only going to have a nightcap while looking over some potential new clients but the truth was (and he was damn well _not_ too far gone to at least _acknowledge_ it!) that he was well on the way to drinking himself past the welling guilt and self-reproach this job had dredged up in him.

_Nate, if I'm engaged..._

_Do your worst._

The words had echoed in his head as he ordered a third round.

* * *

Nate didn't often second-guess himself. And he would rather not be doing so now, while the room tilted nauseatingly around him like some cursed carnival ride, as he kept his eyes squeezed shut against the morning sun. _Note to self: just leave the damn window blinds down permanently!_ So no, the drinking wasn't a solution, he'd long been aware of _that_. And it didn't make for a pleasant morning, not by a long shot. And it _hadn't_ kept any nightmares at bay.

It had muddled them, certainly. Given him nothing more than vague impressions of activity, half-muffled noises...No colors or solid forms, only shapes and shadows in motion around him, not frantic, but not calm either. Not the beeping and bustle of the blue-tinged pediatric ward, the keening and wailing and begging and useless people who couldn't save his boy. It left him with only a strong, unfocused, sense of dread.

Or maybe that sense of dread was more physical than psychological. Nate contemplated the wisdom of attempting to ignore the building nausea versus levering himself upright to stagger to his bathroom. Allowing himself a quiet groan, he settled on a happy medium instead. Small steps beginning great journeys or some crap like that he told himself. He pried his eyes open first, blinking against the light and trying to force the blur around him into recognizable shapes.

One of those shapes resolved itself into a certain blond-haired thief, perched vulture-like upon the footboard of his bed. Nate scrambled up and backward, managing to whack his already-throbbing head quite soundly on the wall behind him.

"Geeze Parker! What the hell are you doing?!" _And how long have you been here?!_ Because Nate was pretty damn sure he had been actually awake and arguing with his hangover for the better part of an hour.

"Waking you up. Sophie said I 'drew the short straw' whatever that means." Parker made air quotes while managing to remain precariously perched on the footboard. She stared at him with an intensity usually reserved for the most "fiddly" of locks, but continued matter of factly, "Eliot didn't make us breakfast."

Nate squinted at her, blinking and buying time to calm his runaway heart. At least the sudden shock seemed to have temporarily quelled his nausea, and partly cleared his head. "Eliot doesn't always make us breakfast, Parker. And I'm not cooking anything for you, either. There's cereal in the cabinet."

Parker rolled her eyes and unleashed a sigh that sounded for all the world like she thought she was speaking with a particularly dim-witted child. She rose gracefully and in one fluid motion stepped forward from the footboard to instead take a spot on Nate's bed, where his feet had previously resided. She crouched down again and leaned forward on the balls of her feet.

"Eliot likes to cook for us when he feels guilty. And he felt guilty yesterday, after the carnival. 'Cause Molly got abducted and he almost had to kill people." All this was delivered matter-of-factly, but that did nothing to quiet the sudden voices in Nate's head, seemingly as clear and real as if he were still wearing an earbud.

_Nate, if I'm engaged..._

_Do your worst._

Parker spoke again before his thoughts could swirl any deeper, and she began counting off bullet points on her fingers.

 _"And_ Eliot went to the farmer's market last weekend. He bought a lot of fresh healthy stuff. He only does that if he's going to use it right away, because he doesn't like to waste it, and it's in _your_ fridge. Which means no one will _actually_ eat it unless Eliot _makes_ us eat it. So, Eliot was going to come here and make us breakfast."

Nate rubbed at the fresh bruise on the back of his head, under the tangle of hair, trying mightily to follow Parker's leaping logic. "He was pretty beat up yesterday, you sure he was up to cooking?"

"He was up to going on a 'date' last night, with some 'nurse'." Parker made elaborate finger quotes again, also taking the opportunity to scoot further up Nate's bed. Nate pulled his feet closer to himself in defense. She sounded...not _disgusted,_ but more _put out_. Like Eliot's hiring a "nurse" was some personal insult against Parker's ability to stitch and bandage him up. Nate hadn't missed how she had immediately shooed Eliot, actually _shooed him,_ complete with little flaps of her hands, into the apartment's downstairs bathroom as soon as the team had returned from the carnival.

In his more soft-hearted sober moments, Nate allowed himself a bemused appreciation that Eliot was willing to teach Parker things like that. Out of the rest of the team, she really was best-suited to be Eliot's unofficial apprentice. She compartmentalized so well, could ruthlessly separate fear and uncertainty from what simply _needed_ to be done. And she seemed to soak up every new thing thrown at her. Surely Eliot trusted Parker's skills, so the fact his date was a "nurse" must have just been coincidence, and Parker had simply missed the cues.

"Well, there you go. He's probably still with her." Nate decided his nausea would hold off after all, and he tried to slip back under the covers and into unconsciousness, but Parker had worked herself nearly two-thirds of the way up his bed now and, Nate was not too proud to admit, her intensity was getting a little creepy.

"Eliot doesn't like to fall asleep with people around. He barely sleeps with any of _us_ around. He would have had his 'fun'," the finger quotes were now directly in Nate's face, "then gone home after his 'date,' and then he would have come _here_ this morning like usual." Parker finished by stabbing the center of Nate's chest with a forefinger.

The finger remained hovering over his breastbone and she intermittently stabbed him with it as she continued her litany. "Eliot left _blueberries, eggs, flour, cream cheese, buttermilk,_ and _his_ waffle iron _here_. So, he was _intending_ to make us Belgian waffles. _And_ since we were _all_ going to be here for a post-job briefing..."

"Yeah, but not 'til this aftern..." Nate tried to intercept the stabbing finger, but he was finding coordination difficult.

 _"AND_ since Eliot felt _guilty,_ today would have been _perfect_ for him to _make_ them. But he's not _HERE."_ She stabbed the finger at Nate's breastbone once more, digging it in this time.

Nate couldn't really fault her logic, odd though it tended to be. Parker had an uncanny understanding of Eliot sometimes, and if she was _certain_ Eliot should have been here this morning...well, that was good enough to make Nate's concern flash at least a code yellow. He reluctantly gave up any further thought of sleeping in, and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. "What time is it? Did you try calling him?"

"Almost eight, and Hardison says the only two numbers he has for Eliot go straight to voicemail. They aren't 'pinging' anywhere either, which he says means the phones are disabled. And the last known location he has for them is _here."_ This time, Nate managed to deflect the incoming finger.

"Okay, Parker. Let me out of bed." Parker rose from her crouch and jumped daintily off Nate's bed, then stood expectantly, still watching him.

"...Parker? Go downstairs. While I get dressed."

"Oh. Okay." And she turned and disappeared from Nate's room.

Rising from his bed and dressing himself turned out to be much easier than Nate had feared when he first woke this morning. Apparently, having the crap scared out of him, and being given a new case for his mind to work on, made for a potent hangover remedy.

The only problem being: _this_ case was much too close to home. And the nausea again turned vaguely in his gut as Nate wondered: did yesterday have anything to do with Eliot's absence today?

_Nate, if I'm engaged..._

_Do your worst._

* * *

When Nate arrived downstairs, he found Hardison hard at work typing, with Sophie hanging directly over his shoulder. She wordlessly tossed him an earbud, and he caught and slipped it in without breaking stride toward the kitchen.

"Parker? Where are you?" Nate found the oversized "World's Greatest Mastermind" novelty mug, something that had inexplicably turned up under the tree last Christmas, and which he usually shoved to the back of his cabinet, was waiting beside the coffee maker. No matter, he needed the oversize dose of caffeine this morning.

 _"On the roof keeping watch,"_ Parker chirped brightly through the coms.

"Why?" The oversize mouth of the oversize mug ensured Nate's coffee pouring went off without a hitch.

_"Listen to Hardison."_

Coffee in hand, Nate leaned against the breakfast bar, waiting for Hardison to finish with whatever he was typing.

"While Parker was upstairs dragging your lazy ass outta bed, I found some really disturbing news out of Europe..." He pointedly ignored Nate's stare and started opening windows to display on the big screens.

"Okay, y'all know I have these crawlers an' things I send out to troll the Internet, the Dark Web, all that? You know, kinda keep an eye out for possible clients or targets, keep an eye on some of our past clients and victims..." Hardison glanced around, blinking as if he'd just woken up. "Cut to the chase, got it. Th' crawlers _jus'_ started pickin' _this_ stuff up...Y'know how San Lorenzo barely had a toe in the 20th century?"

"Oh come on, Hardison. It wasn't _that_ bad. They had the Internet..."

"Yeah, like nineties Internet. Sophie, the point is, it was still the Dark Ages in San Lorenzo, kinda like Cuba...took a while for _any_ o' this news to hit the _modern_ Internet here..."

Hardison poked at a button on his keyboard and a grainy, jumpy, video started playing. It could have been any of thousands of Mediterranean-style buildings, its side blown out and half-reduced to rubble and flame. With the lack of any clear landmarks on the film, no one could say with certainty where it was. But it was as if a grave-chilled wind blew past him as Nate shuddered with a sudden dread. Screw code yellow, his concern ratcheted straight to code fire engine red.

"Around ten or eleven last night, our time and early-ass mornin' for them, the Parliament Building was bombed. There's no word on casualties, motive, nothin', 'cause everything is mass confusion right now. Their Presidential Palace is near by, and was damaged in the blast."

"My God," Sophie's voice was barely a whisper.

"There's no word on President Vittori, only rumors that the country is currently under martial law. Nothin' beyond local news is carryin' the story yet 'cause pretty much NO ONE in the WORLD knows San Lorenzo even _exists,_ an' everyone else is focused on the Middle East an' Al Qaeda...who gives a rip 'bout a tiny unassuming country on the Mediterranean Sea?" Hardison paused for breath and a hearty swig of orange soda. "An' anyway, I'm sure WE all know who's behind this."

Sophie spoke before Nate could shake off his chill. "Oh that stupid, stupid man! He's gone off by himself again, just like when we first went after Moreau, and he was out 'keeping tabs...'" _What's the deal with the finger quotes today?_ Nate had to smother the sudden urge to laugh hysterically. "...on the _wanker_ without telling us he used to work for him! That bloody self-sacrificing idiot is going to get himself killed!"

"But if he thought _we_ were in danger, he wouldn't leave us without protection..." Hardison looked like he wanted to believe Sophie's assessment was wrong, that Eliot was just late because he had slept in with some dame...but Nate could see it in his eyes. They all knew Sophie had hit the target dead-on.

And now, Nate was well-beyond fire engine red. Before the team, hell, before _he_ could become paralyzed with fear and indecision, Nate prodded them back to work.

"Hardison, do we have a contact number for Eliot's friend in San Lorenzo? The General?"

"Nothing personal, the number Eliot used the first time was compromised. And the San Lorenzo government switchboard is understandably _not there_ right now. Do YOU have a contact for that Italian chic? 'Cause the number we used before is disconnected." Hardison tried to take a swig from his empty orange soda bottle. Sophie plucked it from his hand.

Nate had retrieved his phone and was already dialing. The number clicked out of service. He shook his head. "Guess she held up her end of the deal and figured that was that. We're on our own. Just keep doing what you're...uh, doing, and let me think..."

"Look, the tech in that country is still back-assward, okay? I'm _working_ on it!"

Ever the calming voice of reason, bless her heart, Sophie called for a time out. "Look everyone, we need to stay calm and work through this objectively, right? We can't just..."

But she was interrupted by Parker, who had remained silent and forgotten through the entire discussion.

_"Guys? We're being watched."_

~TBC

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have mentioned this in chapter 1: I laid out some of my version of Eliot's past in The Building Blocks Job, and most of my other stories show bits and pieces of his relationship, as I see it, to the rest of the team. There is no need to be familiar with those stories in order to follow this one, but they are all related.
> 
> Just a reminder: this takes place prior to The Girls/Boys Night Out Jobs.

Eliot shifted his weight gingerly, his battered frame protesting the chill air and prolonged immobility. That Russian punk _(why was it always Russians?!)_ had sure done a number on him. But he was alive, upright, and mostly intact and that beat the alternative by a mile. He may be sore, and his team may think he was nuts, but he'd have to be dead to agree to any sort of a hospital stay.

And honestly, he _had_ intended to rest and relax last night, not end up lurking in the pre-dawn chill of the park across the street from Nate's building. Of course, Eliot's definition of "rest and relax" _had_ included that long-anticipated date with the nurse he'd met over the green apples at the farmers' market. _But,_ despite everything his team believed about him, not _every_ date resulted in... _other_ activities. Tonight, he would have been perfectly content with dinner and some sympathy cuddling on the couch while watching a movie. Beating up three hulking guys who tried to mug a little old lady seemed like the right kind of cover story.

Dinner had been quite good (perhaps a tad too much salt in the shrimp risotto but still...), and they had lingered long over drinks and dessert. Good food, good company, and an evening away from his highly annoying, over protective, and over _indulging_ teammates did more for his recuperation, physically and mentally, than a hospital stay and heavy painkillers.

Until that good mood crashed down with the simple vibration of a cell phone.

* * *

The offending device was not his personal phone, the one which everyone knew the number to and which had been left at home for obvious reasons. And it was not the super-special, Hardison-issued, untraceable, unhackable work phone he kept with him always. It was his _other_ phone. The one the team did NOT know about and never would, and the one very, very few people had ever been given the number for.

Eliot excused himself politely, only his many years of experience keeping the sudden dread he felt off his face and out of his actions. He stepped out onto the smokers' patio in back of the restaurant, thankfully empty at this late hour. Leaning against the railing, as if to idly watch the boat traffic on the Charles River below, Eliot flipped open his phone and pressed it to his ear. "Spencer."

"It's begun."

The shrimp risotto turned to lead in Eliot's stomach, and he gripped the patio railing to steady himself, as if the light breeze might be enough to knock him flat. Never in his life had Eliot ever been so thrown by so few words. _No. We're not READY!_

"What did he do?" Eliot's voice was hoarse but rock-steady, belying his internal battle as the lead block of his dinner turned slowly to acid. Flores was unflappable when he and Eliot had fought side by side, unwavering when Eliot had delivered his death warrant, unafraid when Moreau had taken him, and now unemotional as he related only the most pertinent facts.

"A bomb at the Parliament building, less than an hour ago. The Tombs were blown wide open. It is too early for full damage reports and identifying any casualties. But there is no sign of _him_. We are certain he has escaped."

It took all of Eliot's considerable self-control to avoid crushing the small flip phone in his hand. Instead, he braced his free elbow on the railing and pressed his forehead hard into his open palm, wondering (hoping?) that he had perhaps taken the nasty painkillers after all, and this was just a drug-induced nightmare.

"Vittori?"

"He is secure. My most trusted men have seen to that." _Thank God for small favors_. Eliot let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, and gulped a great lungful of the freshening breeze. It helped temper his soured stomach and brushed loose locks of hair back from his too-warm face. Eliot took another deep breath, feeling his head begin to clear a bit. This was too soon, and they weren't ready. But they also weren't beaten _yet_. One more deep breath, and Eliot felt in control of himself again.

Flores would be needed by his country and his president in this time of confusion and fear. Eliot had work to do now, very important work. He needed to cut this call short. "Keep me informed." One more deep, steadying breath, then: "My people here may attempt to contact you..."

"They will not be able to for some time. But yes, when they do, I will abide by your wishes. Be careful, my friend." And Flores ended the call.

* * *

Eliot closed his phone, and returned it to his pocket. He couldn't afford to waste a single moment now, but he needed to simply breathe just a little longer. He gripped the railing with both hands and bowed his head, considering. His team was likely scattered at this late hour, back to their own homes for the night. It would take too long to gather them all to himself, and they were likely safe enough for the time being. None of those addresses had any ties to the work they did. And he could not afford to alert his team to what was happening right now.

It was Nate's building, the unofficially-official Leverage HQ, worst-kept secret headquarters in the world, that would be most vulnerable when Moreau made his move. But, it was also the ideal staging spot for what Eliot planned to do now. They had just completed a job, there was a planned debriefing the following day. Let Hardison, Parker, and Sophie deliver themselves into safety. Eliot knew where they all lived now, so he would swing by each place just to check, before he took care of other matters. If all looked well, they could sleep peacefully for one more night.

It was a skeleton of a plan, held together with duct tape and glue, but it gave him some hope. First order of business: he had a call to make. Second order of business: let nurse Gail down softly. No cause for alarm, no reason to draw attention to his business.

* * *

_We knew it was only a matter of time._

Eliot had wanted desperately, naively maybe, to believe that Nate's solution had fixed everything. He had wanted to believe he could move past this blight in his past with no further bloodshed. He knew it couldn't last. And he knew, when this day came, that the others could not become involved again. There would be no more room for tricks and misdirection. This could only end with bloodshed.

And so Eliot had kept his feelers out, listening for any move from Moreau's considerable empire, fallen though it appeared. It would have been foolish to assume Moreau had left all his men in the warehouse. Or even the best of those men. And so, Eliot had plotted at length with Flores. They had the framework of several plans, but it was slow work and this was too soon. There had been no warning whatsoever. Moreau would surely waste no time. Flores' call gave Eliot the slightest edge, and though it might prove insignificant by the time this was all said and done, Eliot would take whatever he could get.

And now, preparations made, Eliot waited in the pre-dawn chill. He had circled Nate's building several times, staying well clear of Hardison's security system. He had marked each team members' arrival: Hardison, lugging his ever-present electronics, was surprisingly the first to arrive. Or maybe not so surprising, as the kid actually had a solid work ethic, and had committed to making certain the Russians never had reason to bother the Connells again.

Sophie had arrived not long after, a humble queen hunched deep into her over-priced fur coat. It was after jobs like the one they had just completed, that the team seemed to want to linger together, more often than not invading Nate's apartment before the sun even rose again.

Parker's arrival had been the most difficult to mark: she flitted from shadow to shadow, while managing to appear as though she were no more than a shadow herself. Eliot approved of her _zanshin,_ her wariness, her sneakiness. She had the best chance of survival on her own. Nate was somewhat competent, he could at least throw a punch and swing that police baton of his. The other two were mostly hopeless. Sweetly-woven words and the fastest computer hacking in the world could seemingly work miracles, and Eliot had done what he could to teach them to throw a punch, protect their vital organs when receiving a punch, and pay attention to their surroundings...but none of it would stand against Moreau's swift and sure vengeance when it came.

Protecting them was his job, doubly so now when he was the only one who could _possibly_ stop Moreau. Now, Moreau knew them all. Now, they were on his radar. Now, there would be no use for tricks.

Eliot fingered the small recorder in his pocket. He wanted his message to the team to be the truth, but in his heart of hearts, he didn't even believe it himself. And a longing struck him unexpectedly, a wish that he could have cooked one more meal for them before leaving. He squashed that wish, quickly and thoroughly as he could.

 _Damnit,_ he swore at himself. That was too sentimental, too distracting. Fantasizing for even a second that he could go back to his friends and this strange new life after all was said and done was dangerous. He couldn't afford sentimentality. He couldn't afford to wonder if they would even welcome him back. He couldn't afford to think about the future. He had to focus on the present. That was all he had time to do. There was such a tiny window in which to work.

How many hundreds of innocents had died by his hand? Now, he would move heaven and earth to keep _four_ innocents safe. He wasn't worthy of these people, but he would try his best to return to them. He just wasn't sure his best would be good enough this time. _I'm sorry, guys. I'm sorry for lyin' to you, Parker._

* * *

Nate and Sophie, Hardison and Parker. They were all safely together now, hopefully still unaware. Eliot had carefully watched the building through the night, haunting it and the surrounding streets until the sky began to lighten and he returned to the spot in the park from which he could watch the entrance to McRory's Pub. He carefully observed the staff arrive as well, a scant few this early in the morning, but the only other people who had any business being in Nate's building. There was no one unfamiliar, no one acting suspiciously. None of the early-morning pedestrian or street traffic behaved in any manner that tingled Eliot's "spidey-senses." There was nothing _distinctive_.

Until he became aware of a figure approaching him across the park, shadowed in the half-light under the trees. The figure, a man judging by the gait, wasn't attempting to hide or act unthreatening. He stopped, unsurprised and completely at ease, when Eliot stepped out from among the stand of venerable old oak trees.

"Shelley."

"Eliot."

They embraced like brothers. Eliot pulled back first, with a wince he didn't bother trying to hide. With all the missions they had been on together, both in the service and after, they knew each other too well to try to hide things like that.

"Damn, Eliot. You look like you ran up against a squad of Russian bodybuilders. You okay? You need some help gettin' revenge on them?" He grinned, but Eliot could see Shelley was ready for whatever job Eliot had called him in for. It was just in the kid's nature to joke around for stress relief. He was solid.

"Russians, yeah, but they're already taken care of. I got somethin' else for ya. I'm callin' in a favor. I want you to protect some people for me." And that was what made this so hard. There were so few people he could trust with _this_. Especially when he longed to do it himself. Shelley raised his eyebrows expectantly, a good soldier if not _technically_ a soldier any more, waiting for his orders.

* * *

"What do you know about Moreau?"

Holy shit. Shelley had never turned down an order when he was in the service, and he rarely turned down a paying job after he'd gone freelance, but this was the kind of thing he would never dare touch with a ten-foot pole. Scratch that. Ten- _mile_ pole. Thankfully, some other crazy bastards already had. Shelley admired whoever had pulled it off, but he sure as hell didn't envy them.

"I know that right now he's rotting away in a San Lorenzo prison cell...that some team of scary-good mercenaries or whatever managed to put him away..."

Eliot's face softened just a bit at that, he probably didn't even realize he'd given it away. But that sure as hell looked like a bit of pride in Eliot's countenance.

"Waaait...that was _you?_ That's the crew you've been running with these last few years? Rumor is they aren't to be messed with." Eliot had had that bad-ass reputation nearly as long as Shelley had known him. It had been well-known, in certain circles, that Eliot Spencer had been Moreau's top enforcer, a nightmare in the flesh. Shelley had never understood why Eliot would take such a distasteful job. Simply killing hadn't really been an issue for either one of them, provided the reason fit their principles, and you followed the orders you were given. But he had lost touch with Eliot not long after Eliot's discharge, and it wasn't until a few years ago that Eliot had tried to reconnect with _him_. Whatever had happened in the interim wasn't Shelley's business. But it appeared now that Eliot had found himself a crew as bad-ass as he was. Though surely even Eliot wouldn't have the balls to make a move against Moreau. Would he?

"Moreau's loose, I just got word...and my crew will be in danger now." That statement jerked Shelley's attention back to the matter at hand and he very nearly walked away, right then. Just turn on his heel, walk away, and let Eliot curse the day he was born. Because as much as they had been brothers in arms, it was _Eliot_ who had drifted away, and now he wanted _Shelley_ to go after this crazy-evil bastard. Shelley was no fool, and he picked his jobs carefully. He intended to retire rich, happy, and with all his limbs intact. He did _NOT_ want to be involved in _this_.

But the truth was, they were brothers in arms _always,_ no matter what had happened in the intervening years. And so Shelley _didn't_ walk away. "You said you want _me_ to protect them, so _you're_ going after Moreau by yourself? _You_ need backup."

"No. I know Moreau's methods, and I'll move faster alone. And you'll be the best help lookin' after them _for_ me. Give them my message." Shelley took the recorder from Eliot's outstretched hand, but he didn't break eye contact.

"Who _are_ these people, Eliot?"

"People who shouldn't be involved in this kinda thing...but they already are, an' they're targets now, an' they're not equipped for this...they're thieves. Hackers. Grifters. They ain't like _us_. They ain't fighters. They're good, but they're not made for _this_. I _need_ you to protect them for me."

Shelley waited, knowing Eliot would take his silence as an affirmative, and an invitation to continue. Eliot looked a bit relieved, but he also looked like ground beef. He wanted to hunt Moreau in the condition he was in now? The man was simply nuts. But Shelley had never known him to act rashly. Eliot knew his limits, even if he stepped over them more often than not. And Eliot didn't bother to hide his limp now, but he downplayed it as they worked their way through the park so Eliot could point out approaches to his crew's building.

"They're gonna figure it out, no way to prevent that. I just hope it's not until I put some distance between us. Look, they'll be skittish, they don't know you...you gotta approach them carefully, but...They don't trust easily...They're gonna see you coming. Hardison has this place wired like nothin' you've ever seen. An' that reminds me: don't let Hardison anywhere near your phone! Leave it in your car or somethin' when you approach them...Be bold, forward, but non-threatening..." _There_ was Eliot the leader laying it out, giving orders. Readying the troops. Preparing for battle.

And being a damned mama bear if he could only hear himself! Shelley absorbed all the relevant intel, but long years of experience let him do so flawlessly with only half his attention. The other half he directed toward this interesting new facet of Eliot. Although...it really wasn't that new. No, Eliot had always been protective of his men when they served together, the bond of brotherhood that made them so damned good at what they did. But Eliot had been tough as well, never sentimental. This was different. He was still gruff but now...now Shelley would swear that he could detect a fondness in Eliot's voice.

"Who _are_ these people?" Shelley put a hand on his shoulder, and Eliot stopped dead. Shelley was mindful of the bruising but he still turned Eliot forcefully to face him. "Who are they _to you?"_

"Just...stick with them. Try to get them to a safe house if you can...they won't want to give this up, they're too invested in it. Just...make sure they don't ditch you. That's the most important thing."

Why was Eliot deflecting? Shelley pressed on, now unaccountably irritated with the entire business. This was exactly the kind of job Shelley hated. The kind the old Eliot had always hated. The kind that got people killed. Too little information, too little planning, and much too personal.

"They aren't _just_ a crew to you."

Eliot didn't answer, but he shifted uncomfortably. And it wasn't just physical discomfort. Shelley knew him much too well. "How's this for an idea, Eliot? _You_ introduce me to them, and give them your message yourself... _Then,_ they might actually _trust_ me."

"I can't..." Eliot's voice caught and he paused to clear his throat. He might not be the greatest conversationalist, but Shelley had rarely seen Eliot at a complete loss for words. "They'll...try something to trap me there...they're...unreasonable, sometimes. Act without thinkin'...it'll get em killed. I...I can't risk it."

"What happened to you, Eliot? After you were discharged, I barely heard from you...we were buddies. We were brothers. _What. Happened. To. You?"_

And now he could see the famous Eliot temper, and it took all his experience and training not to flinch away from it. "If you don't want the job, just say so!"

"Hey. I will DO this job for you. Not as a favor, but because we're brothers. I'll take care of them as if they were my own. But when this is all said and done, I'd like an explanation." Eliot's relief at that statement wouldn't have been obvious to anyone who didn't know him as well as Shelley once had.

"They've... _we've_...been doing good things...helpin' people who have nowhere else to go. I forgot how good that felt. They were touched by Moreau's evil once already. I can't let it happen again." And Shelley knew that was the only elaboration that would be forthcoming from Eliot. It would have to be good enough for now.

Eliot turned his attention back to the mission. "One of 'em, Parker, is capable of sneaking up on _me_. Keep that in mind, and don't let her get anywhere near your pockets!"

* * *

And then, as the first rays of real sunlight began to warm the air around them, Eliot left. Shelley watched him go, knowing the direction he took now was not his intended direction. He would not let even an old service buddy in on his plans. He never looked back and though he limped, he never missed a step.

Eliot had pointed out the building surveillance, and Shelley avoided it with ease as he made his own circuit of the block: keeping his own watch, learning for himself the normal patterns of this part of the city. Eliot had wanted Shelley to whisk the team away to a safe house but if that was not possible, Shelley needed to know for himself what was normal traffic around the building, and what was not.

And he was also wasting time because, according to Eliot, this crew was damn lazy and approaching them too early in the morning might interrupt their beauty sleep. Okay, that was mostly Shelley's perception but still...let them have time to settle over breakfast and coffee, and they might be more willing to listen.

Shelley figured 8:00 was late enough and he decided to follow Eliot's advice about leaving his phone behind. He had just turned in the direction his nondescript sedan was parked when a shuffle in the leaves above him caught his attention. There was a slight breeze through the park, but this susurration just didn't quite match the rest. Probably only a squirrel, but before he had time to check, his world exploded in white and pain.

TBC~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't hate Shelley. Really I don't. He just needs to learn some things.

In the beginning, Parker hadn't trusted Eliot. She hadn't trusted _any_ of them, and she hadn't _wanted_ to. Stealing the airplane designs had simply been a contract job with a really good payout, good enough to make working with other people worth it, and that was all that mattered. No sense wasting time remembering names and other useless information. The only trust she had given the crew then was that they would feel and act the same way.

But that job, even with other people involved, had been _fun_. And she saw an opportunity to learn new things, no, to _steal_ knowledge from these people. And they weren't actually a threat to her, either. Hardison was weird, but he was _definitely_ terrified of her, which was good. It had made him a complete non-threat. Sophie and Nate would have been easy enough to escape from at any given time, so no worries there, either.

But Eliot was careful and watchful, and he seemed to know what people were doing even before _they_ did. She had been wary of him from the start. He was the only one of the four of them who could possibly have been a real physical threat to her. If he had ever cornered her, she might not have been able to get away or fight him off. But, he had never made a move against her, _ever_. And he happily showed her new ways to protect _herself_ when she asked. He was fierce like a wolf, and gentle like a pet dog, and loyal like them both all at the same time. It was weird, but it worked. And the only time he _ever_ showed his teeth was to protect them.

Some of the foster homes she had been in had dogs, and there were a lot of dogs on the streets as well. She had met good dogs and bad dogs, and she was astute enough to know that bad dogs weren't born, they were made. And they could be _un_ made. Eliot thought he was a bad dog, but Parker knew that was wrong: the team had _un_ made him. Eliot was _safe,_ and _trustworthy,_ and _loyal_. And now he was missing, and it was up to his family to find him.

 _"Who's watching us, Parker? I don't have anybody on camera."_ Hardison sounded jittery, like when he drank four bottles of soda in a row and hadn't eaten any food to go with it. When he got that way, Eliot usually demanded he stop and eat "protein," but Eliot wasn't here to tell him that now.

"Eat some protein, Hardison. You don't see him because he looks like Eliot looks." Parker shifted her vantage point, and started planning her descent from the roof. Jumping would not be feasible this time, the wall was too exposed. Pity.

 _"Wha...? Slow down, girl..._ is _it Eliot?"_

Parker rolled her eyes. Hardison may be smart, but sometimes he lacked imagination. "No, he _looks_ like Eliot _looks_. You know when Eliot _looks_ at something and says it's _'distinctive'?_ Or when he's watching people but not _looking_ like he's watching them? That's how this guy looks...that's why he's avoiding your cameras."

Parker was on the ground now, via the boring old fire escape in the alley, but still hidden from the unknown observer's view. She put a set of headphones in her ears and pulled up the hood of her jacket, then dug out the tiny spy camera Hardison had "acquired" for her. Now, she looked just like any other early-morning jogger.

"He's like Eliot's evil-but-not-identical twin. Maybe his name _is_ Eliot and he spells it differently...like 'Eric' and 'Erik!' Maybe this is 'Eliott' with two 't's'. I'm going to get closer and send you a picture."

Ignoring Hardison's pleas that she be careful, _Phht! Wasn't she always?,_ Parker stepped boldly out of the shadows on the side of the building opposite where Eliot's evil-but-not-identical twin was currently lurking. She had watched from the roof for a while as he had made several circuits of the surrounding area, seemingly without pattern, but he was using the same techniques Eliot did to avoid attention and appear as though he belonged.

Parker herself easily blended into the light foot traffic now, and began to work her way around the building. As long as she behaved as though she was part of the normal pattern, she would be part of the normal pattern. Eliot had put words to what she had been doing instinctively for most of her life. If you were part of the normal pattern, you wouldn't be noticed. Parker smiled to herself. This was going to be as fun as stalking Eliot. And stalking Eliot was a _lot_ of fun, though she always made sure to announce herself to him before she got too close, like with a sleeping dog.

Eliot seemed proud of her abilities, but she knew he would blame himself if he ever hurt her because she surprised him. She _knew_ Eliot would never hurt her, but to keep him happy, she made sure never to surprise him. This guy though, she would be more than happy to surprise. It just may take a little while.

* * *

 

 _"Parker? Are you_ certain _there is just one person?"_ There was Nate, and she could _hear_ him thinking, like some kind of psychic tingling over the earbuds. Nate was creepy when he got intent like that.

"Yep, I circled the building and jogged around the park...there's only one person acting like Eliot. He has a car parked around the corner too, nothing interesting inside it." It had taken only a moment to get in and poke around the interior, but it was as unrevealing as she had expected.

 _"Wait girl, how did you even get off the roof without being seen? I didn't even catch ya on my cameras...Ya know, I don' really wanna know."_ And then Hardison trailed off muttering about holes in his security and creepy ninja chicks. Parker tuned him out.

"He also doesn't have any weapons, all I found in his pockets was a small recording device, and a cell phone." Hardison squawked and from his babble, he seemed to think Parker had put herself in unnecessary danger by getting close enough to Eliot's evil-but-not-identical twin to pick his pockets. It had been easy. He had been so intent on blending in, that he had completely missed _her_.

_"Okay Parker, what's your plan?"_

Parker paused as if to turn off her iPod, pulling the earphones out and tucking them in her pocket. She used the movement to glance back at Eliot's evil-but-not-identical twin, who remained completely unaware of her, and smiled to herself while fingering the taser in her pocket and assessing the trees overhead. She always did enjoy a challenge.

"I need someone to bring Lucille around behind the park..."

* * *

 

_Sonofabitch that hurt!_

Shelley had not been tasered in quite a while, a year probably...yeah, that job in Rio, that was the last time. It was easy to forget just how excruciating it could be. But he was familiar enough with the sensation to keep his wits about him once the blinding white pain finally gave way to the feel of darkness and motion. _Vehicle with large cargo space, and at least three people: two holding him by the arms, those arms having been tied behind him while he was incapacitated, and a third person driving. Oh, and a black pillowcase over his head. That_ never _got old._

They didn't travel far at all before the vehicle bumped to a stop and he was manhandled out of it, through some sort of door, and immediately up a set of stairs.

And by now, Shelley had decided to play along. Maybe it had something to do with the whispering, but-all-too clear, voices around him: one young man who apparently didn't have the stomach for this kind of work, fretting that they'd all be arrested for kidnapping. Or shot. Neither of which his Nana would approve of. Then there was the slightly-off young woman who seemed to want to taser him again. Please no. He knew who these people must be by now, and compliance would get him exactly what he wanted anyway: into the inner sanctum. It may not have gone according to plan, but he'd take what he could get, because if Eliot ever found out the crew had managed to get the drop on him, Shelley would never live it down.

And if it had happened under any other circumstances, if these people hadn't been the "innocents" Eliot claimed they were, Shelley would never have _lived_ to live it down.

Fatal assumption number one: not properly heeding Eliot's paranoia. Fatal assumption number two: believing the team was all safe in the building, still unaware. Fatal assumption number three: believing these people were unfamiliar with Eliot's methods. Fatal assumption number four: falling for the "jogger in the park" bit.

 _That_ was sloppy of him. If anything like that had happened on an assignment, people could have died. People _had_ died. And people would die now, if even half of what Shelley had heard about Moreau was true. Eliot was certainly worried. He didn't really show it of course, and he didn't let it interfere with what he thought had to be done, but Eliot was more worried than Shelley had ever seen him.

They had been good, all of them, back in the day. They were the best of the best. But Eliot had been uncannily good, unflappable, tough but good-natured. He had commanded respect, he thrived on the work. And even afterward, Eliot had been known as unshakable. _Had_ to be, to be so trusted by Moreau. And if Eliot was _worried_ now, Shelley ought to be _terrified_.

* * *

 

He took time to be impressed by the quality of the pillowcase over his head: high thread count meant he couldn't see through the weave of the fabric, even in the bright room they eventually entered. The crew's execution was not perfect, however. If they had been intending to disorient him, they should have bundled the fabric closer about his neck. As it was, he was able to see out the bottom, and could therefore identify his surroundings, had he chosen to fight them off and escape.

He had seen the color of the van (black silver), the make of the tires (good quality, but entirely too expensive), the bottom edge of a green dumpster and dingy brick wall (back alley of their headquarters, judging by the distance they traveled), the stairway was concrete (fire stairs, not a public area), and the color and grain of the wood flooring in the room they eventually entered (also expensive). He had even identified the damn brand of shoes his would-be attackers were wearing. They _thought_ they knew what they were doing, but they only knew enough to be a danger to themselves.

His third captor, the one who had remained silent so far, cut the ropes on his arms, and he was unceremoniously dropped into a hard wooden chair. Before he could consider making a break for it, which he _wouldn't,_ because he was right where he _wanted_ to be, his arms were forced down against the arms of the chair, and lashed tight. Then another length of rope was snaked around him, drawing him up against the back of the chair. If Shelley were to be completely honest with himself, it was one of the better bound-to-a-chair situations he had experienced. Better in that he _didn't_ think he could escape it in five minutes flat.

The hood was finally yanked off, and he came face-to-face with Eliot's crew.

Shelley's chair was situated between and before a solid wood table and a kitchen island. Alec Hardison was easy enough to mark, at the far end of the table working intently at a laptop where, according to Eliot, he spent ninety percent of his time both on the job and off.

The jogger in the hoodie must be Parker, and Shelley berated himself again for not marking her in the park. She had fit the role _too_ perfectly, that should have been a warning light. According to Eliot, she was the most physically dangerous of the team after himself, but she sure didn't look it. There was an odd gleam in her eye though, as she stared at him, and she tossed a small taser from hand to hand, while sitting perched on the near end of the table, swinging her legs back and forth.

The legendary Sophie Devereaux was seated in another chair facing Shelley, legs crossed primly and hands folded in her lap, looking for all the world as though Moreau was not about to bring his wrath down around their ears. She seemed bored with the entire proceedings. And Nathan Ford, the thorn in Eliot's side, was leaning nonchalantly against the kitchen island, sipping from a ridiculously over-sized coffee mug. Apparently, someone thought he was the "World's Greatest Mastermind."

At first glance, the team was definitely at least as quirky as Eliot had described them, and Eliot was good at assessing people and situations so, Shelley would follow his recommendation and be straightforward. No beating around the bushes.

"Really, Ford? The taser I understand, but the pillowcase and van were a bit much, don't you think? I know exactly where I am."

Ford only shrugged. "It wasn't _my_ plan." And damn, but Eliot was right about that stare. It bored right through you, and you could hear the gears of his mind whir like a well-oiled machine.

Parker stopped swinging her legs, and waved the taser at him, glaring. "You stared at my butt."

"Yeah, you're lucky she _only_ tased you, bro." The rhythm of Hardison's typing never faltered, and he never glanced up. No one spoke for a moment then, and Shelley took the time to reassess his situation. They were apparently not going to pepper him with questions immediately, but they must be wondering what he knew about Eliot's plans. He'd have to be careful not to reveal too much information to _them_. Eliot had been right again. Reasoning with these people was going to be like playing chess against a Grand Master. _Four_ Grand Masters. And it looked like he had been designated to play white.

"If you're trying to intimidate me, you should know I've been held and interrogated by people a lot more terrifying than you four. And I never broke."

"Nah, we don't play like that. Nate could just hypnotize you. But we wanna give you the chance to come clean on yore own." Hardison finally stopped typing and looked up at him with a self-assured grin. "'Sides, we know who you are already. Didja know Parker got close enough to take your picture?" No, Shelley did _not_ know that, and it kind of made his skin crawl now to hear it.

"Facial rec tells us you're James Shelley, achieved the rank of Staff Sergeant in the US Army, and honorably discharged. That's it. It's squeaky clean. As squeaky clean as Eliot's record which makes us very, very suspicious. I'm sure you can understand why." At this, Hardison took a bite out of some sort of gooey-looking atrocity, and chewed with a smug air.

So far, Devereaux hadn't uttered a word, but it felt as though she could read his very soul. He'd had captors, hardened killers and ruthless psychopaths, who tried to intimidate him with stare-downs less disconcerting than Devereaux who simply sat there. Shelley tried hard not to appear intimidated. Because he _wasn't_ intimidated. Hell no.

But he _was_ starting to lose feeling in his hands, and he he needed to do something to get himself untied. Time to move this conversation along. "It's not hard to guess Eliot and I were in the same unit. So, was there a question you wanted to ask me?"

"Why are you here, Mr. Shelley?" Ford took a sip of his coffee, and put the mug down on the counter, crossing his arms in front of him. His head tilted to the side just a little, and Shelley could nearly feel the physical weight of Ford's consideration of him.

"I go by 'Shelley.' _Just_ 'Shelley.' I'm a friend of Eliot's, and I have a message from him. If you'll just let me reach into my pocket..."

Hardison held up Eliot's recorder and waved it back and forth. "She also got close enough to pick your pockets. If you really _are_ a friend of Eliot's, he'd be very disappointed in you right now."

No shit. Shelley was finding it harder and harder to remain impassive. If these guys were _this_ good, why would Eliot not _enlist_ their help in tracking down Moreau? Why leave them behind?

Hardison set the recorder down on the table, and pushed the "play" button.

 _"Guys, Hardison, I know you're smart enough to have figured out what's going on by now. I'm not gonna tell you all to ignore it. What I AM gonna tell you is_ don't come after me _. I mean it. We tried it your way Nate. An' I appreciate what you were tryin' to do. I wanted it to work out that way, I really did. But now, I gotta do my job, an' that is keepin' you all safe. DO NOT come after me._

_Sophie, I know you're thinkin' I'm a self-sacrificing idiot. Let me be one this time. Parker, sweetheart, before you lose it: I fully intent to come back alive. I am NOT leavin' you forever. I promised, remember?_

_Nate, I'm leaving them in_ your _hands. That means, if you get them hurt tryin' to come after me, I hold you personally responsible. Get it? Take care of yourselves, keep an eye on things, but DO NOT get involved!_

 _I've sent Shelley to you because I trust him. Listen to him like you...no,_ better _than you listen to me, damnit! He'll keep you safe until I return."_

The recording ended, and the atmosphere in the room had become thick and heavy. No one moved for a moment, until Hardison reached for the recorder again, holding it tight as though it was a lifeline. "Damn."

Ford glanced at Devereaux, and she answered his unasked question without looking away from Shelley.

"He didn't sound under duress, but you know it's difficult to tell on a recording. He _is_ holding something back, but I do believe he trusts Mr. Shelley." She shifted in her seat, remaining perfectly coiffed and brought one hand up to inspect her manicured nails.

"Mr. Shelley is holding back as well." It was as if Shelley was now beneath her notice, a mere peasant in rags, groveling before an imperious queen. And it was unsettling as all hell.

 _"Are_ you holding back on us, Mr. Shelley?" Ford's gaze bored into him but he matched it steadily.

 _"Just_ 'Shelley', and all I know is Eliot wanted me to watch over you and deliver that message!" Which was essentially true, except he could make some very educated _guesses_ as to what Eliot's plans might be. "Eliot wanted me to take you all to a safe house. You must know this building is a target."

Devereaux continued inspecting her nails, then reported to Nate, as if she were a human lie-detector, "That much is true. He doesn't know what Eliot is up to."

"Okay, now that that's settled...If you'll just untie me, we'll get going..." He tried to move his hands in a placating gesture, but they were really quite numb by now. Parker had not moved since Eliot addressed her via the recording, but she stared at the opposite wall with such intensity, it seemed as though the wood paneling might catch fire. At Shelley's gesturing, she focused back on him, and waved the taser in his direction.

"What happens when we get to the safe house?"

"Well then sweetie," and he gave her his most charming smile, the one that melted the hearts of women every bit as well as Eliot's smile did, "you'll be safe, and I'll go help Eliot."

Devereaux dropped all pretense then and stared straight at him. "That's a lie."

Several things happened then, too quickly for Shelley to really follow. He suddenly found himself flat on his back, wind knocked out of him, and seeing stars from where his head had bounced off the kitchen floor. The chair back dug painfully into his spine. Parker's taser, right in his face and flickering, was held back from his skin only by the fact Hardison had grabbed her in a bear hug and was holding on for dear life. The hacker's chair had been knocked over in his rush to reach her, and she was still struggling hard against his grip. She was a lot stronger than she looked, and was also very nearly wriggling out of his arms. Devereaux hadn't moved, but Ford stepped forward and gently pried the taser from Parker's grip.

"Let's give him one more chance to talk, okay? Mr. Shelley, it would be in your best interest not to patronize her, or any of us. Understood?" Ford placed the taser on the table and tipped Shelley's chair upright again. Parker stopped struggling and let Hardison usher her back to the table, though she maintained a laser-like glare in his direction.

"Eliot was right. You are _all nuts!_ Untie me so we can _get the hell out of here!"_

"Hardison?" Damn Ford and his complete lack of concern!

Seemingly satisfied that their little psychopath wasn't going on the attack again, the hacker turned back to his computer. "Cameras aren't picking up anything unusual, and I set some motion sensors after we brought Mr. Shelley up here. Nothin's tripped." He fiddled with something small then, and Shelley noticed that he also had possession of his cell phone. Damn it!

"Mr. Shelley, you have one more chance to come clean with us. Did Eliot tell you anything else about his plans? Have you told us _everything?"_

"That is all I know, Ford. Eliot didn't share his plans with me." And he stared Ford down, thoroughly pissed off and intent on not revealing the one last thing Eliot _did_ tell him. Because he sure _as hell_ was not going to mention Eliot's last instructions: what pretty much amounted to his final will and testament. _Hell. No._

Ford held the stare for a beat longer then, "I'm inclined to believe you, Mr. Shelly, but the problem is this: If we accompany you now, I believe you will do _everything_ you can to prevent us from finding and helping Eliot. And that does not sit well with me. He may be your _friend,_ but he is _our family_. And unfortunately, that compromises Eliot's judgement."

Shelley opened his mouth to speak, but Parker stood from her chair, taser somehow back in hand. He snapped his jaw shut with an audible click.

"I believe you care about Eliot and want to help him. But, you're also a soldier and you'll follow whatever orders he gave you. Your loyalty will be to Eliot's _wishes,_ not to what is best for _him,_ because that's how he operates..."

And now Devereaux finally broke character to mutter something about "bloody idiots" and "self sacrifice."

"Eliot underestimates us sometimes," Ford continued. "We intend to help him _and_ look after ourselves, and we would appreciate it if you helped _him_ as well. So, we are absolving you of your duty, and asking you not to interfere in our business."

"That's a dangerous game you're playing, Ford! You'll be a distraction and you'll get him _and_ yourselves killed!"

"With Moreau loose we're all screwed, one way or another. But the odds are slightly better, for him and us, if we work together. He's forgotten that. Parker?" She stepped forward now and Shelley did his best not to flinch. To hell with surviving interrogation tactics, this was another beast altogether. But Parker held only a set of noise-cancelling headphones.

"Ford, wait!"

But the last thing Shelley heard was, "If you aren't babysitting _us,_ then that frees you up to help _all_ of us, including Eliot, who you claim is your friend. Goodbye, Mr. Shelley."

Parker slipped the headphones over his ears before dropping the pillowcase over his head again. The next thing Shelley knew was the sensation of the chair being dragged backward across the floor. When it came to a stop, he felt a slight displacement of air, as if caused by a closing door. Locked in the closet then. That wasn't exactly new, either.

-TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is the longest gap between chapters, but no promises. Thanks for hanging in there with me. Much angst and introspection in this one...

Chapter 4

"Couldn't you have gagged him, girl?" Hardison glanced up from the careful packing of his necessary gear. He frowned toward the closet door where a string of invectives only slightly less imaginative than Eliot's worst could be heard, albeit somewhat muffled. Parker was pacing in front of the door, though her usual pre-con frenetic energy seemed to be lacking. She appeared lost in thought, idly twirling her taser in one hand, but at Hardison's query she stopped and returned to the work table, taking up position next to Sophie, who had given up trying to help Hardison sort his gear when it became clear she was only getting in his way.

"Eliot says a person can suffocate from that if you're not careful and we're not trying to kill Eliot's friend." Parker pursed her lips, and shifted her eyes toward Nate, who had just returned from downstairs. "Are we?"

"Um, no Parker. We are _not_ trying to kill Eliot's friend. We may need him later. Okay guys, I gave Cora a _very_ sanitized version of why we'll be gone for a while. She promised to keep an eye out for anything unusual. And no," he turned toward Sophie, who appreared ready to object. "I don't think she or anyone in the pub will be in any danger. The destruction in San Lorenzo aside, blowing up our building here would draw too much attention, and I doubt he _simply_ wants to kill us. As long as we're not here, they should be safe."

Attempting not to dwell on that sobering thought, Hardison yanked home the final zipper on his computer bags, and shoved the largest one into Nate's hands. He knew they were waiting on him only, since emergency go bags for everyone were permanently stowed in Lucille. Facing the wrath of an impatient Leverage team, Hardison lingered long enough to reach under the work station and pull out _Hardy_. Yeah, okay, _Parker2000_ may have been a little on the nose, but Hardison thought it had a nice ring to it. _Hardy,_ though? Where did she get _that_ from?

He handed his second favorite girl in the whole wide world over to Parker who, with a puzzled frown, carefully took the green robot and cradled it in her arms. Hardison's heart melted just a bit at how strangely vulnerable she seemed in that moment, almost like a child given something priceless, but at a loss what to do with it. He spared just another second to give her a little grin. "Who knows babe, we might need some extra help, huh?" But the moment had passed, and Parker only reached out to grab his arm and tug him toward the door, leaving him barely enough time to grab one last bag from atop the work station.

Hardison was last out the door, but he paused again before pulling it shut behind him. With the noise-cancelling headphones on, and the closet door shut, there was no way Shelley could have known if they were still in the apartment, or had left twenty minutes ago. But the tone and target of his expletives had changed, and were now interspersed with the occasional faint thump or grunt, as if he might be seeking a way to loose himself from his bindings. Not a little spooked, Hardison pulled the door shut with a bit more force than necessary, and rushed to join the others who were already making their way down the fire stairs to the alleyway.

Parker leaned out Lucille's side door, waiting to slide it shut as soon as Hardison climbed in, but he dropped to his knees by the rear bumper instead, yanking open the small bag.

"Hardison!"

"Gimme jus' a minute guys. Believe me, I _know_ we're in a hurry. Eliot's friend up there sounds like he's gettin' ready to go _'T-Rex escapes the paddock'_ on us..." He fished around the bag and came up with a small screwdriver and a set of new license plates. "Lucille here has as many solid aliases as we do, let's put one to work." He secured the rear plate in place, then rushed around the vehicle to attach the front plate. "Now, she's just a family camper van outta the great state of Virginia, home of the most awesome peanuts and ham you can imagine!" He stuffed the old plates and screwdriver back in the bag, and climbed inside, grinning with satisfaction.

Nate didn't even wait until the side door rolled shut before he floored Lucille out of the alleyway, across a thankfully-empty side street, then turned to join traffic on a busier boulevard. With a huff, Hardison strapped into one of the rear jump seats near the van's computer bank. No appreciation at all! Not even an acknowledgement of thorough planning and genius foresight. Zip. Zilch. But then Parker, still hugging Hardy tightly to herself, turned and smiled at him, and for a brief moment, everything was right with the world.

* * *

Nate drove for a time in silence. He was less concerned with _where_ they went at the moment than that they simply put as much physical distance as they could between themselves and Mr. Shelley. Eventually, they would have to find a temporary base of operations. Eventually, they would have to discuss what to do next. But for now, they had a nearly-full tank of gas, and a lot of open road. It looked like there would be rain though, and they should find somewhere to hole up before things got nasty.

Despite his bravado with Shelley back at the apartment, Nate at the moment could see no clear path forward. There were Things To Consider, simple bullet points on a list in his mind, but he needed to weave them together into something actionable. Keep Shelley at arm's length, but within reach. Dodge death. _Find_ Eliot...and keep him from doing something he'd never be able to come back from. Because Nate was pretty sure he himself was at least partly to blame for this.

Nate knew what Eliot was capable of. He knew something of what Eliot struggled with. Eliot had killed, and not just in combat. And Eliot didn't _want_ to kill any more.

_Nate, if I'm engaged..._

_Do your worst._

It sounded like someone had spoken aloud, but maybe that was just Nate's conscience again, that pesky little thing he always tamped down even when he knew Eliot was right, but he felt like poking the bear anyway.

What right did Nate have to wield that sort of control over Eliot? No matter Eliot had essentially given him the power, but Nate didn't like it. He didn't trust himself not to abuse it. And too often, he forgot that Eliot was not some dog on a leash, to be set loose or brought to heel at Nate's whim. The first tiny drops of rain began to fall, pock-marking the fine layer of dust on the van's windshield. Nate barely noticed them.

The more objective part of his mind clamored that whatever Eliot was doing now, he was taking orders from no one but himself. That the actions he'd take to protect the team would have no root in Nate's directive at the carnival yesterday. _Only yesterday?_ It felt like decades ago. The objective part knew Eliot would have done whatever he had to with or without Nate's blessing. The objective part knew Nate couldn't have stopped him at the carnival if he had wanted to. And the objective part tried to ignore the obvious deduction to be made from that: that the team likely had no chance of stopping Eliot now, either.

And the objective part also knew there would be worse things than the folding of Leverage, Inc. if they lost their hitter and friend to his demons, figurative or literal. It would be like... _blue-tinted lights_...No. Don't put it into words, not even in your own mind. Can't think like that, too personal. Too painful. Focus on this: No matter how minuscule the chance the team had to stop Eliot, Nate had always liked playing the odds.

But where to start?

He cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware of Sophie's probing gaze on him, but he kept his own eyes on the road ahead. "Look, guys, things snowballed pretty quickly back there, and we didn't really discuss this..."

"We're good, man." Hardison must be at Lucille's computer bank: the quick, deliberate rhythm of his typing the only sign he was well-immersed in something, and apparently not feeling any trace of the motion sickness he usually claimed to have when he wanted the front seat. Parker was silent.

"Nate," Sophie touched his arm lightly, and Nate was nearly certain it was _only_ a touch, and nothing more. "We _all_ want to find him, Nate. We _all_ want to survive Moreau. And we're all good with doing whatever it takes to accomplish both."

Faced now with the weight of the team's trust, solidarity, and determination, Nate swallowed down his indecision and uncertainty. Turned them toward pressing the team into helping him find solutions. It was time to lead.

"Hardison, what have you got?"

"On San Lorenzo, nothin' new yet. There still isn't any real media coverage. It's mostly being reported as 'just another' military coup in a country no one cares about." The intermittent raindrops turned into a slow drizzle. Nate switched the wipers on, and began to look for a quiet place to pull off and park the van.

"As far as Eliot...We know he doesn't have the phone I issued him, no earbud, and none of us knows where he lives, so I can't check traffic cameras around _his_ place. If he went to an airport or bus terminal, he dodged all the cameras. So essentially, he's in the wind..."

"But _would_ Eliot leave the country?" Sophie turned in her seat to address Hardison. "We know Moreau's empire was extensive. Surely, he has people here to do his bidding, if he's not already on the way himself."

Sophie had put to words Nate's own thoughts. He _knew_ Eliot would remain close. Eliot had sent Shelley to them to be the guard dog, but Eliot was playing the bait. And he didn't need to spell it out to the team, they all knew their friend too well for that.

"So, I thought, maybe we could start with where we saw him last...huh."

"Hardison? We don't need any 'huh's' right now." But he had found one thing they did need, and pulled Lucille into a nearly-empty roadside rest stop.

"'Huh' as in I got a pretty clear picture of Eliot's _date_ from the pub's security cams...turns out she really _is_ a nurse at Mass General." He huffed a laugh, and Parker snorted. It was the first sound she had made for almost the entire drive, and a too-quiet Parker was never a good thing.

"That helps us how, Hardison?" Lucille could pass for a small family camper van, so Nate parked down at the end of the lot farthest from the road, where sleepy drivers would be expected to park and catch an hour or so of shut-eye.

"It's just...you know. For the most secretive, paranoid man in the entire world, Eliot ain't exactly shy bout sharin' his more 'colorful' escapades...I just thought, the way he said _nurse_ Gail that it was, like a euphamism 'r somethin'...Okay, look. They apparently took her car to a nice, but not pretentious, restaurant on the river. I got 'em both on security cameras going in, but only her leaving... _much_ later. 'Course the cameras don't cover the entire restaurant. Eliot probably snuck out the back somehow, maybe went for a swim in the Charles River or somethin'...anyway, that's the last place we know he was at."

"So, still not helpful." Nate flicked the windshield wipers off, and swiveled the driver's seat around, pretending to ignore Sophie's judgmental glare.

"Well, I mean...we gotta start somewhere, right? While we wait for Eliot to call Shelley or Shelley to call him?"

"Nate, he's right. We would be remiss if we don't make sure, _absolutely_ sure, that this nurse isn't somehow further involved." Still, Nate hesitated. Every fiber of his being told him they didn't have much time to find Eliot and convince him to accept their help. He was a juggernaut when he was in defensive mode, and this was more than just a simple protection gig. _Do your worst_. Eliot's _worst_ was nuclear.

But the team couldn't afford to make mistakes either. And if there was even the slightest chance this nurse was not who she seemed...well, at least they'd have something to go on.

"Okay. We start with the nurse."

* * *

 

_Damien picked up on the second ring. "Ah, Eliot. I've been waiting for you to check in. Was there a problem completing the job? If I didn't know you so well, I would think you're losing your touch." There was a hint of humor in Damien's voice, a conciliatory tone like that of a receptionist when dealing with a simple missed appointment. Sure, Eliot. We can reschedule for a more convenient time. When is good for you? But one did not simply "reschedule" with Damien Moreau. He expected his wishes to be carried out with no delay._

_"Yeah well, I'm declinin' the job."_

_There was a fraction of a beat of silence, the huddled anticipation of thunder following a lightning strike. Then Moreau's voice came again, now with a cold steely edge. "Is this because you know the General personally? I never took you for the sentimental type, Eliot. Or perhaps you no longer have the stomach for the work?"_

_"I'm goin' freelance. I ain't interested in working for a single person anymore. It was understood when I took your offer, I could walk away at any time."_

_And here was the pivotal moment. There would be no going back now. All that remained was to see how cleanly he could walk away._

_Eliot knew he'd never be clean again._

_"Now, I'll tell ya what I_ do _have the stomach for, Damien." Here he paused, trying to gauge the weight of the silence on the other end of the line. How angry was Damien? How likely was he to heed the wisdom in what Eliot was about to offer?_

 _"I'll tell ya what I have the stomach for. I have the stomach to end any and every person you might attempt to send after me. You know I'm more than capable of that. And if you persist, I'll have the stomach to come after_ you _. So, save yourself the money, the headache, and the manpower and let me walk away. Forget about me, Damien. Forget about me, and I will keep your confidence, as I always have."_

 _Damien barked a laugh. It was a hollow, evil sound. "I would have been willing to forget you, Eliot. I_ had _forgotten you. But then, you came after me with your merry little crew. Perhaps I will take them from you one at a time...but what shall I_ do _with them? Killing them would simply be...anticlimactic. I wonder, how well could the incomparable Devereaux grift her marks with a face so terribly scarred no one would ever call her beautiful again? Or your hacker. How would he fare with no hands? Would Parker remain the perfect cat burglar with every bone in her delicate body broken? And your mastermind...Perhaps I'll return his head to you when I'm done with him."_

* * *

 

Eliot jerked awake, his strained hip protesting the cramped position in the driver's seat of his plain little sedan. Heart pounding, he took note of his surroundings, seemingly normal for the type of neighborhood where one could sleep behind the wheel of one's car without seeming out of place. And without being harassed.

He took a deep breath, pressing the heels of his palms hard to his eyes in an attempt to chase away the last vestiges of sleep. He checked his watch, he had drifted off only forty minutes ago, not quite as long as he had wanted to allow himself. Damien's last laughing words were the figment of his imagination of course, but they rang all too loudly in his head, driving him out of the cramped, claustrophobic, little car. He had to _move, fight, do something!_ But he couldn't. Not yet. He couldn't make his move until he knew just _how_ Moreau was moving. And the waiting was the hardest part.

So for now, Eliot would walk. He left the car behind, knowing in the unspoken understanding of this neighborhood, that it would not be molested in his absence. He would not be gone from it long, but he needed to work the stiffness out of his joints, and the ghosts out of his mind. He needed food, though his stomach churned at the very thought of eating.

His head throbbed. Yesterday's concussion, though mild based on his prior experience, was being exacerbated by a sinus headache brought about by falling barometric pressure. There was a storm coming.

Even out of the car now, alone on the wide-open sidewalk, Eliot felt as though the very sky was bearing down on him, trying to press him into the ground. At the same time, he felt as though he were caught at the top of a roller coaster, moments before the breakneck drop, or on the knife's edge between the click of a pressure plate, and the roar of death. It was an _expectant_ lull, a mere pause that carried physical weight.

Moreau had the patience and cunning to wait and plan his escape, to make sure nothing could go awry and that everything was perfect. Eliot had been prepared to wait for years for a move from him. This escape was bold, brash, attention-grabbing, but...ultimately anti-climactic. It did not fit what Eliot thought he knew about Moreau's methods. No, either he should have escaped quietly as possible and gone to ground for a while, or followed up this brazen escape with something immediate, taunting, and fearless. This lull wasn't right, but Eliot couldn't fill in the blanks yet.

Even pinned down in San Lorenzo, as he should be if Flores had managed to close the borders quickly enough, he'd have some link to his men world wide. He could have contacted associates in America immediately, since he must have known his escape would alert Eliot. He'd want to deal with the team personally, but surely he could have sent people to capture or at least _watch_ the team if he couldn't travel himself.

So why was there no sign of it? Why had there been no further move?

This reeked of distraction. But distraction from _what?_ Eliot's thoughts swirled, and that didn't help his throbbing head. He couldn't do _anything_ until he knew more. And he couldn't rush his contacts if he wanted to stay below the radar. He had to wait, and it chafed.

Eliot found himself longing for Hardison's electronic network, something he could use to search and watch anonymously, and not have to rely on contacts with dubious third-hand information and loyalty only to their own skins...but he ruthlessly squashed the desire to contact the team. He could not think of them as assets to be used in a war that was all his own. He couldn't be certain that something Hardison did, some database he pried into wouldn't in some way, tip off Moreau.

And you don't hide behind civilians. That was a tactic of the enemy.

* * *

 

The street vendor's glance lingered on Eliot's bandaged hand, but he did not comment. In this neighborhood, you didn't ask questions. There was a small park across the street, and Eliot chose a bench with good vantage points. He wasn't bothered by the light, misting rain that began to fall. Eliot ate mechanically, out of necessity rather than desire. Something in the back of his mind noted he would have enjoyed this meal under other circumstances (and that Parker would have enjoyed the finger-food aspect, and Sophie and Hardison might have turned up their noses at the color and texture), but it tasted of ashes to him right now. Ashes and blood.

Flores was supposed to contact _him_ when he had a handle on things, and each hour without word from the General made him more and more concerned. Eliot's first thought after they put Moreau away was to simply go in later and kill him, no matter Nate would be disappointed. Eliot knew the General would have allowed it, looked the other way even if he had not approved. But removing a man like that left a vacuum...and there were too many people loyal to him scattered all over the world. If Eliot killed Moreau, someone else would simply rebuild. If they _held_ Moreau, used his imprisonment as bait to those loyal to him...they may be able to root out the foundations of his empire.

They let it be known Moreau was imprisoned. They carefully fed information to the Italian. By her work, Italy and other countries were turning over and seizing Moreau's considerable assets. Moreau was a dealer in many things, but he had discriminating tastes, and had always been a collector of fine goods. Many of Moreau's assets were still tangible items: art, antiquities, things he could barter, sell, or hoard. And he was smart enough to scatter his stashes across the world.

Having eaten, it was time for Eliot to put to use one piece of the scattered bits of information his contacts had provided him. He opened his phone, and dialed a number.

 _"David's Used and Vintage Books,_ how may I help you?" The voice on the other end was welcoming, grandfatherly.

"You tell the woman with no name...If she knew about this beforehand, and didn't bother to warn us...if she is after that damn statue...I will find her. This is the only warning she gets."

"Who is this?" The voice was unflustered, imperious, all other affect immediately dropped. This was NOT the voice of a confused shop owner receiving a wrong number.

"Give her the message. She'll know who it's from."

Eliot ended the call, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The Italian was useful, but he still didn't trust her. Though she had ultimately helped them, she was motivated by her own set of ideals and loyalties, her own greed. Still, she could become an asset again.

An asset. It had been a long time since he had thought of people in terms of "assets" and "liabilities." He was tired of it. He was tired of running from his past. He was tired of _caring_. He was tired of _not_ caring.

_"Perhaps you no longer have the stomach for the work?"_

Eliot stared at the bandages wrapped around his hand. Parker had done a great job. She paid attention to what he taught her. She cared. If Shelley had to give the team his _other_ message...If Eliot had his way, Nate and Sophie would settle down, Parker and Hardison would lead a blissfully domestic life.

They'd go nuts in a week.

So if that wasn't an option...he hoped they'd take his suggestion to bring Shelley in if they couldn't leave the work behind. Shelley was trustworthy, a good and loyal friend, and Eliot mourned that he had not been a very good friend to _him_ these last few years. Still, Shelley would look after _them_. The team was as safe as Eliot could make them right now.

The rain fell heavier. He needed to get moving. He'd been in one place for too long. His thoughts were too scattered, and he needed rest. Time to head back to the car, find a place to hole up and wait for news. And soon, it would be time to check in with Shelley.

-TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the wait, there's no excuse. Except for work. And gardening, now the weather is cooperating. I'm reaching a point in this story where some unsavory details of Eliot's past are going to start showing through and it's been difficult to write out, even though it has to happen. There's a reason for his reputation, and we know he's not always proud of it. They aren't terribly graphic details _yet,_ But take this as a warning for future chapters. Oh, and Hardison uses some minor language his Nana might not approve of but all things considered, I think he can be forgiven.

Outside Lucille's comforting closeness, the rain continued in a slow drizzle. The storm didn't seem to be intensifying, but it wasn't letting up either. Weather reports had forcast a period of unsettled weather over the next few days, but other than reflecting the somber mood of the situation, the weather ought to have been neutral, a non-entity. Even so, Nate found his uneasy mind attempting to categorize all possible ways, no matter how tangental, the weather could help or hinder them. He usually found comfort in knowing all variables within a given situation, fitting them into predictable and precise categories.

It also gave him something to focus on as he reclined at Lucille's computer bank, watching the stationary dot that was Mr. Shelley back at his apartment, and the blank window awaiting action from the man's phone. Running variables based on the weather should keep his mind off the carnival.

It wasn't working.

Nate thought he had convinced himself that his exchange with Eliot at the carnival had no bearing on Eliot's actions now, of course they didn't. When Molly had been abducted, her safety became the team's primary focus and Eliot would do _whatever_ he had to to ensure her safety. Any of the team would: it was understood.

So why would Eliot even put that option into Nate's hands yesterday? As if Nate would want him to hold back that instinct, do anything less than everything in order to rescue a child. The thought plagued Nate's restless mind, and he couldn't push it aside, no matter how hard he tried to remind himself that his focus needed to be on _finding_ Eliot _now_. They could deal with everything else later.

But when Eliot deemed the current threat to the team to be neutralized, what then? He had promised on the recording to return to them if they stayed out of the fight now. However, the more Nate dwelled on Eliot's query yesterday and on his own reply, and the more he bounced them around and around in his head, the more his brain wanted to translate the entire exchange as: _What would you think of me if you_ saw _me at my worst?_ And that was not for Nate alone to answer. And if Eliot thought Nate was the only one at all privy to the events that transpired in the warehouse in DC, then he was sorely mistaken. Nate was sure Hardison at least had done some snooping, but none of the team was _that_ dense.

Giving up on running variables as a distraction, Nate allowed himself to think back to just before that, to the park where Eliot had ripped open and laid bare his own heart to them. It had been disconcerting in that moment, to see Eliot so openly vulnerable, so close to the edge that even Parker, worst among them at reading people, had known not to pursue the matter.

 _What would you think of me?_ Nate was beginning to believe Eliot might _fear_ the team's answer.

What had Nate said back then? Eliot might have to be 'that man' again to get them into the auction? Of course there had been a workaround, but for Nate to have spoken so flippantly, to imply that he'd point to a target and just expect Eliot to dispose of it? So much like he imagined Moreau must have done...that was unforgiveable. His own admitted and embraced shortcomings aside, Nate knew he never wanted to become the kind of man who would treat his friends in that way. Friends, or something like it. He had long ago given up pretending to himself that these people meant nothing to him.

Especially not with what happened later, and the change Nate had seen in Eliot when he picked up the fallen gun, like he had flipped a switch inside himself. And that was something Nate never wanted to witness again.

And while he was in the mood to dwell upon and admit his faults to himself, Nate dearly wanted a drink. But there was no hidey hole or secret cabinet inside Lucille that Hardison did not already know about, and so Nate had never tried to stash anything within her walls. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to will away the headache that was building at the base of his skull.

"I thought we were finished keeping secrets from each other. The kind of secrets that affect all of us..." Sophie spoke aloud for the first time in the better part of the last hour. Nate opened his eyes again and regarded her, though she remained staring out at the persistent drizzle. She was hunched into herself, her coat fluffed up around her, not unlike a broody hen taking residence in Lucille's front passenger seat as though it was her nest.

Before Nate could even think to answer her, there came a sound at Lucille's side door, a precise rhythm of taps, and Nate shook off his dangerous downward spiral. He slid the door open to reveal Parker and Hardison, she bouncing on the balls of her feet, and he rubbing gingerly at an impressive welt on his left cheekbone. They were both soaked through. Behind them, parked next to Lucille was an unremarkable late-model blue Honda Civic. Nate frowned.

"It's a little small, isn't it?"

Parker slipped past him into the van and shook herself, not unlike a canine, drawing a mild and half-hearted reprimand from Sophie.

"Small means fast, it's common, and there's no tracker so it'll be impossible for the cops to find even if it was right under their noses." She snorted a laugh. "Just like that time in New York." This last was said half to herself, as though reliving a fond memory.

"Okay, okay, fine. What about the nurse?" Nate directed this question at Hardison, who was sheepishly avoiding looking at anyone, so Parker filled in the blanks.

"Eliot's nurse probably really is just a nurse, and she seemed to reeealy like Eliot," this came with an exaggerated waggle of Parker's eyebows, "but she didn't like it when Hardison said she was one of 'those' kind of women."

This earned Hardison a glare from Sophie, and he rushed to defend himself. "Hey, hey! I never _said_ she was like that...just that it was surprising Eliot would go on a real 'date' you know? Talking books, movies, normal date stuff..." Sophie's look turned withering and he trailed off. "She slapped me, okay? Ya happy? Anyway, she didn't know why Eliot cut the date short other than he had 'family trouble.'" This came out in a rush, complete with those damned finger quotes that had strangely seemed to define Nate's morning. Hardison took his usual seat, and Nate returned to the driver's seat, which he swiveled backward to face everyone.

Hardison checked his screens, and tapped the keyboard a few times. "And she didn't see where he went when he left...Ya know, Nate, I hear you thinkin'...it was a waste of time. _I got it!_ But you ain't been puttin' out any solid plans either, just sittin' here broodin' since we left your place..." He poked again at his keyboard with rather more force than was completely necessary.

"We need protein." Which might not have been the strangest thing Parker could have said in that moment, but it had the benefit of distracting Nate who was more than willing to get into a yelling match with Hardison for the simple reason it _would_ be better than just sitting around brooding. Which, of course, Hardison had been correct about. Nate didn't need the reminder that for all his bravado with Mr. Shelley, he truly had little idea where to begin. His mind suddenly dredged up the incongruous image of himself, eight years old, in stocking feet trying unsuccessfully to run across his mother's freshly-waxed floor. A lot of effort, not much headway.

"Parker?"

Parker sighed. "Hardison is 'hangry' and Nate still has a hangover. Eliot would be mad that none of us ate breakfast. And he was supposed to _make_ us breakfast." The last sentence was muttered toward Lucille's carpeted floor. Parker had her heels up on the seat with her, arms wrapped around her calves, and chin resting on her knees. She looked terribly young and lost in that moment.

Nate's own stomach gave a sudden growl as if just remembering that it was already...he surreptitiously checked his watch. Damn, past noon. Very, _very_ far past noon. He had been so insistent that Parker get them an untraceable vehicle, and that they hurry back and not waste too much time on the nurse angle...would it have been that hard for him to suggest they bring back food?

Irritated with himself, Nate made an executive decision. "Fine. Hardison, find us a temporary headquarters. No mansions this time, no safehouses Eliot already knows about. Somewhere we won't be noticed and where we can hide Lucille. Then, we'll take the car Parker got us, and go find somewhere to eat."

Hardison's computer bank beeped. "Hold that thought. Looks like Shelley's loose...and there's a call comin' through to his phone."

* * *

 

Shelley stood in the open floorplan apartment, under the scrutiny of a rather creepy portrait, rubbing alternately at his chaffed wrists and bruised shoulder. When he finally caught up to Eliot's people, he'd have to remember to thank them at least for their thoughtful use of a natural-fiber rope. It had made chewing so much easier. But the hinges and lock on the closet door had been heftier than strictly necessary, and he'd had no room for a running start.

Finally free and not too terribly damaged, save for his bruised ego, Shelley stared in thoughtful consideration at his phone. It had been set carefully in plain view on the end of the team's work station. It was a blatant taunt, but Shelly wondered why they would even bother. The hacker must have cloned it or spoofed it or whatever he did to it. Why not just take it with them if they intended to try tracking Eliot? Whatever the reason, Shelley was not gonna take the bait.

Except...Eliot was due to check in soon, might already have tried to call. Shelley had lost track of time, and hadn't been able to hear a damned thing while in the closet. To add insult to injury, their little thief had taken his watch. When was Eliot due to call? Had he already called and had his people gotten a fix on his location? If so, he might already have dumped his compromised phone...which meant no more contact with Shelley since Shelley's own phone was compromised. Okay, no problem, he could work solo just fine. Problem was, he knew next to nothing about how Eliot's people operated. He hated working a job with no intel.

If Eliot deemed these people worthy of his time, then they were no idiots. Hell, the brief period of time Shelley had dealt with them himself showed him that. They were strange, unorthodox, but certainly capable, and Shelley wondered again why Eliot would not accept their help in his quest. But that was not for Shelley to question now. He had agreed to look after Eliot's people and that's what he intended to do. He just needed to figure out where to start.

He rubbed absentmindedly at the shirt collar against the back of his neck, and his finger brushed something small and foreign. _The hell?_ He plucked it from his collar and stared dumbfounded at a tiny tracking device in the palm of his hand. Quickly, he patted himself down and came up with four more of the offending devices. _When had they...?_

No matter. Shelley dropped them to the floor and ground them to grit under the heel of his boot. Next order of business, search the apartment for anything useful in finding these people. It didn't seem likely, but he would be remiss if he didn't at least check. He turned away from the work station, the useless phone could rot here for eternity as far as he was concerned, but the phone picked that moment to ring. Shelley stopped in his tracks and turned back toward it incredulous, as if it had just insulted his mother. It rang again.

If by some miracle, Eliot had not yet been tipped off, and if Shelly did _not_ answer now, Eliot might assume the worst and launch WWIII. If Shelley _did_ answer now, he would most certainly compromise Eliot's location since the hacker had definitely done _something_ to the phone. _Damn_ it.

Split-second decision made, Shelley grabbed the phone before the second ring ended. "Eliot, dump your phone... _Luxembourg."_ He hung up before Eliot could even begin to speak. Shelley flipped the damned thing over, intending to remove the battery, snap the SIM card, crush the screen, possibly run over the offending device with a steamroller if the opportunity arose. He had not even gotten the battery cover open when it vibrated in his hand, and he gingerly flipped it back over to see a text message, bold and taunting, filling the screen.

_If you keep this phone with you, we may let you catch up to us._

Damn. It.

* * *

"Eliot?"

"Shelly warned him, ended the call too quick to get more than a general location that covers half of Boston. But...heeeeey...Shelley's textin' me back..." Hardison leaned forward to read the long reply, then quickly tried to block the screen from their view.

"NOT cool, bruh! That kinda language ain't fit for the audience in here! We got ladies with..." he glanced sideways at Parker, who was curiously trying to peer at the screen..."with delicate sensibilities!"

Nate brushed his arms aside to read the reply for himself. "Well, at least it looks like Mr. Shelley will keep the phone. And we knew we probably wouldn't be able to get a fix on Eliot's location anyway."

"Well, if he changes his mind about the phone..." A few key taps later, and Hardison brought up a list of the tracking devices Parker had managed to plant on him. Five were flashing red, a sixth was still green. "Killed five buuuut...he missed magic number six! We are _golden!"_ Hardison reached over to hi-five Parker, then did a little spin in Lucille's chair. Nate grabbed the chair and turned him back to the computer bank.

"The problem now is whatever 'Luxembourg' meant, we can assume neither of them will risk a meet up. They're both much too smart for that. But at least now we know for sure he's still close."

"And now _he_ knows we're not safe with Shelley." This was the first Sophie had spoken since Parker and Hardison had returned. "You're deliberately distracting Eliot like Shelley warned us against. What are you trying to accomplish here, Nate?"

To break the laser-like focus he has on getting himself killed. Remind him we need him, that we'll accept no less than him. Remind him he has something to live for. Nate spoke none of this out loud. Instead, he put as much confidence as he could muster into his voice. "Buying time, hopefully. I think there's more to this than Moreau simply escaping. Eliot stayed close, which tells us _he thinks_ the danger is close. Otherwise, why not go to San Lorenzo to help out his friend, since he already had a babysitter in place?

"But, nothing has happened back at the building..." he glanced at Hardison, who shook his head, no tripping of his alarms. "There's something more going on here, some unknown element, and I'm not sure Eliot has figured that into his plans. We need to stop him from acting without complete information. And if he thinks Mr. Shelley isn't up to the job of protecting us, maybe he'll return to us of his own accord."

Sophie just shook her head. "Do you really believe that?"

Nate remained silent.

* * *

Eliot swore, a long string of invectives in mixed tongue. He didn't really care what language he used, it was more a mantra to focus on as he methodically disassembled his burner phone and tossed the pieces into the river below.

Eliot wanted to be angry, but he couldn't afford anger. Anger is how he had ended up getting his ass handed to him yesterday. It had almost cost him Molly, he would NOT let it cost him the team. He was well aware that when he fought angry he got sloppy. At the warehouse, he'd remembered to push the anger deep, not let emotion or fear rule him. Find the balance. Find the dead cold spot at the center of his heart, and embrace it.

That's what he needed to do now.

As he worked on his phone, Eliot tried to glean anything he could remember from Shelley's message. Tone of voice, any other code that might reveal if Shelley had been under duress. In their pre-dawn briefing, there had not been enough time to go over every possible contingency, but with long familiarity, Eliot trusted Shelley to work autonomously and think on the fly.

 _Luxembourg_...it was an assignment years ago where everything had gone sideways from the start. They had been compromised, but managed to pull it off with everyone intact. The fact Shelley referenced that job in particular gave Eliot the sinking suspicion that the team had given him the slip. The code would have been different, likely more explicit, if anyone had been captured...or killed.

Still, that didn't mean they were safe. Far from it. They were four loose cannons with no friggin' clue what they were up against, and incomplete information. Hell, _Eliot_ barely had clue what they were up against right now. Where the _hell_ was Moreau? Flores had not contacted him, and none of his contacts had heard a word, not even what continent he might be on.

 _Luxembourg_ also implied no need to reestablish contact. Eliot could assume Shelley had a handle on things, which was no less than Eliot expected from him. But damn it that his first instinct when Shelley had warned him was to turn away from the job at hand and find _the team_ instead. No way that could happen though, not when he'd been diligently working all day to put himself out as a target for Moreau. Chapman had been right, he must have gone soft. But he could not afford to be soft when their lives were at stake. Not soft, not sentimental. Cold. An emotionless machine. Remember the warehouse.

Still, he would have to keep an eye out for any sign Shelley DID need to get in contact. Another damn distraction! Eliot almost did want to contact Shelley...he wanted someone to yell at, so he could avoid having to find someone to punch instead.

Phone now thoroughly destroyed, Eliot was already on the move back to his car.

* * *

Lunch (or was it more of an early dinner?) had been a somber and quiet affair. There was no planning that could really be done, and watching Shelley wasn't yielding any results just yet. He had lingered at the apartment for a while, probably searching it for information on them, but he wouldn't find much. And now, he seemed to be wandering a random pattern throughout the city. He kept the phone with him, but if he was speaking with contacts, he was smart enough to cover the microphone.

Parker understood what Nate was trying to do. Even if they couldn't directly speak to Eliot, they could still get a message to him. _We won't settle for less than_ you. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the only thing they had right now. The thing was, Parker didn't think Eliot was entirely wrong in what he was doing, and she didn't think Nate was entirely right in trying to draw him back in.

Eliot wanted to kill Moreau. Nate hadn't wanted to the first time, but Parker was okay with the idea. If Eliot had to kill someone to keep the team safe, that didn't really bother her, although Sophie would probably say that it should. Eliot would only kill the people he absolutely had to kill. Parker accepted that. _The two of us, we do things they can't. Won't._ So, Eliot left them because he could do the things they couldn't. What actually bothered Parker about what Eliot was doing, was that Eliot didn't _like_ doing that kind of thing any more, and he didn't like the team knowing about the things he used to do.

After eating, back in the Civic with Hardison folded nearly in half and complaining in the back seat beside her, Parker pulled Eliot's recording device and a set of headphones out of her pocket. She listened through Eliot's message again. And again. Stop. Rewind. Play.

_"Parker, sweetheart, before you lose it: I fully intend to come back alive. I am NOT leavin' you forever. I promised, remember?"_

Yeah, he made that promise on the night they returned from DC, the first time they encountered Moreau and hadn't quite won. She had known something was wrong with Eliot, and had followed him home and made him promise not to leave. He had promised, and she had believed him. And he had been so happy after San Lorenzo, that she had no reason to believe he would try to leave them again. And now Eliot said he intended to come back...but people _intend_ a lot of things, people _promise_ a lot of things, it doesn't mean they'll follow through.

And it wasn't like Eliot had never lied to them before. Not direct bald-faced lies, but he had lied by omission from the moment the Italian had first arrived and dropped Moreau in their laps. Eliot was capable of lying to them.

_I fully intend to come back alive._

Parker listened to it again, tried to hear what Eliot was and wasn't saying. Sophie had said he was holding back on the recording. Parker wasn't as good as Sophie at reading people like that, but she was pretty good at reading Eliot. And she might not know much about how love worked, but she knew Eliot loved them. She was sure of it. Eliot was their family, he simply was. _That_ much, she understood. And so she was certain Eliot _wanted_ to come back to them when he was finished, but she was also beginning to believe he wouldn't _let_ himself do so.

"Parker? Honey, are you okay?" Sophie sounded concerned. No, no she wasn't okay. Parker felt like her chest was being hollowed out from the inside, but she didn't know how to explain that to these people in the car with her. And she didn't know how to explain what she thought was going on with Eliot.

Parker pulled off the headphones. "I want to go to Eliot's apartment. I want to check something."

"Well, that would be great, mama, if any of us knew where he lived. But our resident paranoiac likes to keep his secrets." Hardison tried to stretch his legs out into Parker's half of the back seat. She scooted over to give him more room.

"I know where he lives. Well, one of the places at least." All eyes were suddenly on her, even Nate's by way of the rearview mirror. Suddenly nervous under so much scrutiny, Parker gave a half shrug. "I've followed him home before. It's kind of a game: he tries not to be followed, and I try not to be seen." She turned to stare out the window, because she couldn't quite manage her usual smile at the memory of these kind of games.

"Mama, you got a strange idea of fun."

* * *

The moment Eliot secured himself satisfactorily in the cheap, run down motel room off the beaten path, he pulled out his fresh new burner phone and dialed Flores' number. It had been entirely too long since the General had been due to check in with him, and now with his old phone compromised and destroyed, Eliot was desperate to get in touch.

If Flores had caught Moreau quickly, he would have alerted Eliot immediately, and Eliot would have been able to return to the team. This delay, this not knowing where things stood was worrisome. Could Moreau have slipped through their web? And if so, what was he doing now? Even just half a day would have been long enough to bring his wrath upon them. The longer this was drawn out, the better the likelihood there would be no going back for Eliot.

He couldn't afford to dwell on that right now, though. Much to Eliot's relief, Flores answered almost immediately, and Eliot identified himself.

"Commander, it is good to hear from you! I apologize for my lateness in contacting you, but there was some concern the location we hid Vittori may have been compromised. We had to move him again, though all is well with him now."

Eliot sat heavily on the edge of the sunken mattress. The events of yesterday, the stress of today, no sleep in between, all this was catching up to him fast. He was _exhausted_ and in more than a little pain.

"You're certain?"

"Yes. The leak came from one of the people we have been watching from the start. He has been dealt with. Unfortunately, he could not lead us to Moreau, and I do not believe he was involved in the bombing. I am sorry to report there is no sign of Moreau at all. We closed the borders quite quickly, that was the point of our planning after all. I do not see how he could have slipped through but...Ribera is dead. I sent men to Moreau's old estate, the one Ribera seized when he had Moreau arrested. They reported that Ribera was displayed rather...biblically...upon the front gate, and his entire household, family and staff, were executed."

Eliot sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. He could imagine the scene, though he would prefer if his mind didn't paint a technicolor picture for him. Moreau had always been fond of bold statements. "In Moreau's eyes, Ribera was a traitor."

"As are you, Commander."

A traitor yes, but more than that, now an active threat. Eliot was well aware of what Moreau would like to do to him if he had the chance. And still, if Eliot had thought walking right up to Moreau and offering his life for the safety of the team would work, he wouldn't even hesitate.

Perhaps he had been silent for too long, leaning over his knees, staring at the threadbare and stained carpeting and trying to keep his eyes open. Flores picked up the conversation again. "The people have accepted me as their temporary President, and are...abiding...with the martial law for now. They know only that a dangerous man is on the loose who tried to assassinate their much-beloved President."

"Of course they'll accept you, you were the favored candidate running against Ribera in the first place."

"Maybe, my friend. But I am rather glad things worked out as they did in that election. I don't think politics agrees with my stomach."

Eliot couldn't help the small smile that came to his lips. Flores would always be a soldier at heart, happiest in the role of protector. Eliot couldn't fault him for that.

* * *

Parker had deactivated and reset Eliot's security system in record time, but Sophie didn't think she had even bothered to notice this fact. The moment the door shut behind the team, Parker was gone, off to check whatever it was that had been bothering her. Sophie, Nate, and Hardison were left standing in Eliot's almost austere living room.

"Well, this is pretty much exactly what I expected..." Sophie took in the uncluttered shelves, lack of any personal trinkets, and the utilitarian furniture in one glance, then turned for Eliot's kitchen. Here, things were a bit more interesting. Personal touches in the form of well-used but obviously cared for cutlery and pans, countertops and cabinets that were clean and tidy but also a bit dinged and scorched...something that was put to use rather than just for show. And also styled more...well...'farmhouse' than 'cutting edge.' Interesting.

Also interesting was the revelation that Nate and Hardison didn't seem to have as much interest in snooping around Eliot's home than they had Parker's. Maybe it was the knowledge that had Eliot known they were all here, he would be threatening their physical safety to no end? Sophie made a mental note never to tell him. Though perhaps...if Nate irritated her enough somewhere down the line...she smiled at the thought. She had just begun to open cabinets, musing at how very like Eliot it was to live above a little organic grocery store, when Parker returned to the living room.

Sophie stepped out from behind the breakfast counter and joined the others. Parker stopped in front of Nate, a small flat cardboard box in hand. A stained and discolored white cloth hung partway out of the open top, but it appeared empty otherwise. She was holding it close to herself, reluctantly, reverently, almost as if it were a beloved pet that had just passed away. Sophie could almost believe she saw unshed tears in Parker's eyes.

Not readily understanding the significance of the box or Parker's reaction to it, Sophie glanced over at Hardison. He seemed just as much at a loss as her. There was an odd gleam in Nate's eyes though, as he watched Parker cradling the box. After a long silent moment, Parker held it out from her body, and Nate took it. He raised it up, and sniffed gently at the cloth. "Gun oil."

Though Sophie didn't have any reason to believe Nate would be wrong about something like this, she found herself asking, "Eliot has a gun?"

Parker spoke almost absently, watching the box still in Nate's hands. "He keeps it buried at the bottom of a trunk in his closet. I found it once when I was snooping."

"Girl, what were you thinking?! If Eliot had caught you snooping..."

Parker turned toward Hardison. "No. He did catch me, but he wasn't mad. Well, not _mad_ mad. So I just asked about it, and he said it was important to him to have a reminder and to just leave it alone and forget it was there." Parker gave one of her half shrugs. "So I did."

To Sophie, the thought of Eliot, _their_ Eliot, with a gun hidden in his closet was almost too surreal to believe. But the evidence was right in front of her. Of course he must have used guns while in the service, and he presumably used them after, in that dark time he rarely spoke of. But obviously there was a reason he chose not to use them _now,_ a reason why he actively disliked them, so what did it say that he felt the need to keep one _as a reminder?_

The possibilities turned Sophie's stomach, and she found herself reassessing everything she thought she knew about her friend. "Eliot doesn't use guns, he doesn't like them...but he's kept one for years."

Nate nodded, meeting the eyes of each team member in their little, incomplete circle before finishing that thought. "And now he's taken it."

* * *

_Eliot moved down the hallway, silent but not particularly worried about being seen. No one was awake at this hour, and he was not intending to leave witnesses anyway. He held his Glock low and to his side, out of the way but ready to use. There was a T-junction ahead, and he slowed his steps as he approached, bringing the gun up in front of him. The hallway ahead ran left and right, perpendicular to the one he was in now, forming the cross bar of the 'T'. Eliot hung close to the right-hand wall, intending to clear the left side hallway first, but a slight noise caught his attention, the barest scuff of feet on a linoleum floor. He held back. From the right-hand hallway appeared a young boy, no more than eight years old, leading an obviously half-asleep little girl who could not have been older than four. The boy did not turn down Eliot's hallway, but stopped and stared at something ahead of him that Eliot could not see from his vantage point. He pushed the little girl behind himself.  
_

_Overcome by a sudden wave of dread, Eliot abandoned his hiding place, intending to pull the children to safely, or perhaps place himself in front of them. But even as he was still moving, he heard the shots he knew were inevitable, saw the children fall, and threw himself at their killer. Their killer, standing emotionless and still, and raising the very weapon Eliot had held only a moment ago, because his own hands were empty now and he lunged for...himself? and the dead, cold, blue eyes showed no mercy as he pulled the trigger once again._

* * *

Eliot woke to gunfire and the smell of blood. He threw himself off the bed, battered body protesting every move, and backed himself into the nearest corner from where he had the widest view possible of his surroundings. Had he been shot? He couldn't immediately tell, it was too dark and he hurt all over.

Someone fired again. No, no. That's not right. A gunshot doesn't keep rumbling like that...

And if he had a gunshot wound in every place he now hurt, he'd have bled out already...Mortar fire, then? Shrapnel? He could still smell the blood, but he couldn't see any on himself, or his surroundings. Where _is_ this? For a long moment Eliot stared in confusion at a dark stain on the wall to his right, wondering briefly if he had been successful after all, and if it was his brains and blood splattered there. But then, he wouldn't be seeing them, would he?

A bright flash of light revealed the lack of fresh gore on the old stained wall, and it was accompanied by another loud rumble, and finally his mind was able to process the sound. Thunder, Eliot realized. The storm was intensifying.

And the blood smell, he finally realized came from his own nose. A small vessel break, barely healed from the fight at the carnival must have reopened either from the pressure changes in the weather, or his own tossing and turning in sleep. It would stop on its own again soon enough, but the smell was suddenly so cloying, so overpowering, that he staggered to the bathroom and dropped heavily to the floor in front of the stained and cracked old toilet, and proceeded to bring up what little he had made himself eat that afternoon.

* * *

 

Outside the drawn curtains in Eliot's living room, the fading evening light had taken on a strange hue. Something unnatural and malevolent, a tinge better suited to the atmosphere of one of his WoW games than to the real world. Of course, that was just his imagination running wild, Hardison thought. All that was goin' on out there was nothing more than the lowering sky reflecting back city lights. He was pretty sure of that...fifty-fifty anyway. Or maybe they'd walk out of Eliot's apartment right into some post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Because the only reason Eliot would willingly pick up a gun would be to shoot zombies in the head, right?

And Hardison knew he needed to stop this train of thought because if he started laughing hysterically now (or maybe he really just wanted to cry), it would not be the proper response to the situation. Because if _Parker_ was solemn and not crazy right now, then that meant this was some serious shit, man. Serious as in...S.E.R.I.O.U.S.

And as if to highlight that this was some serious shit, lightning flashed outside, and was followed moments later by a rumble of thunder almost loud enough to drown out the ring of Nate's phone. Startled out of their own silent musings, the team looked to Nate who quickly handed the box back to Parker and pulled out his phone.

Hardison found himself hoping beyond hope that it was Eliot calling in to yell at them. Maybe he found out they were in his apartment and he was returning right this minute to break all their necks. Because right now, Hardison would welcome the world's grumpiest hitter with open arms, even if he knew Eliot could easily break those arms.

"Cora? Are you...what do you mean 'strange people'?"

 _Nate's building!_ Hardison dug his tablet out and brought up the security feed from McRory's Pub. He didn't immediately notice anything amiss. Nate sounded a bit concerned but not overly so. Apparently, Moreau hadn't traipsed right in with his Storm Troopers and blown up the place.

"No, no, if they haven't approached you, and they're not actually doing anything, just treat them like regular customers for now. We'll send you some help."

 _Go time,_ Hardison thought as he started typing out a message to send to their new little gofer... _Shelley, fetch!_ He chuckled a little, just to himself because to chuckle out loud right now would be to not properly acknowledge the Seriousness of this Serious Shit.

Nate closed his phone and turned back to the team. Sophie and Parker were watching him with something not quite akin to worry, but it was Hardison who Nate addressed first.

"Did we ever find out who actually bought the Ram's Horn?"

-TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shelley finally gets to have a little fun.  
> Warning for a bit of bad language in context, and some canon-level violence.

_Possible trouble at McRory's. We need you to check it out._

The text message had been succinct, if a little vague. "Trouble" could have been anything from a clogged drain to an army of Moreau's goons.

 _I am neither your plumber nor your hired muscle, Ford._ Shelley deleted what he had typed without pressing SEND. The little pub below Ford's apartment was not strictly part of his agreement with Eliot, but if the "trouble" had anything to do with Moreau, that made it Eliot's business, which did technically make it Shelley's business as well. And truth be told, Shelley had never been one to let innocent parties get caught in the crossfire. He sighed, typed _stand by_ instead and tossed the cell phone unceremoniously onto the front passenger seat.

 _If_ he played Ford's little game for now, _maybe_ they'd actually call him back in before they did anything _too_ stupid. He started his car, waited for an opening to merge into traffic, and began the long drive back across the city of Boston. He might as well keep busy since none of his own inquiries had panned out. He had found a very superficial file of the team's past clients at the apartment, but had pretty quickly given up any hope that one of them may be sheltering the team. They truly were the good guys it seemed, and Ford wouldn't be putting any of them in danger now.

* * *

At first glance, McRory's was just what it purported to be: an old-fashioned neighbor Irish pub. It was unassuming, tidy, and seemed to have a friendly atmosphere. Shelley drove past it once, checking for anything out of the ordinary on the outside. Seeing nothing, he drove several blocks up, parked legally at a curb, and walked back. The afternoon was fading toward evening, thunder rumbled closer, and the sky suddenly opened up, drenching Shelley before he had made it half a block from his car. Rather than being an inconvenience however, his sodden clothes gave him good cover as he slid onto an open stool along the bar. Now he could look like an irritated and unapproachable passerby seeking refuge under any cover he could find. Otherwise, he might have drawn too much attention from some of the regulars who might have felt too inclined to chat up a stranger.

He motioned to the bartender further down that he was ready to order, then studied the mirror behind the shelves of bottles. The four asian men gathered at a round table in a back corner were so glaringly out of place in suits and ties, that Shelley scanned the room several times trying to pick out the _real_ threat. The pub may have had a strong old Boston-Irish theme, but the clientele Shelley had noted seemed to represent a solid cross section of the changing neighborhood dynamics. Even so, these men didn't fit.

All four were impeccably dressed, though it was very obvious that three of them were bodyguards for the fourth: a much older, wrinkled and wizened man, but with a shrewd air about him. The younger three were more stout and heavily muscled than the average Korean man which, after a time, Shelley concluded to be their ethnicity. Their suit coats were cut, and hung from their frames, in such a way as to accomodate concealed carry. Despite this, Shelley did not for a moment doubt they were also trained in unarmed combat, and may also carry other weapons.

They were entirely out of place, and the dry appearance of their clothing suggested they had been sitting here for some time _before_ the rain began and had not come in simply to wait out the storm as Shelley was pretending to have done. He took his time studying the other patrons, he had been caught unawares much too often this day...but there was no one else remotely out of place in the pub. A lovely young redhead approached him from the other side of the bar, but before Shelley could give her his order she spoke, voice pitched low for his ears only.

"You're Shelley? My uncle Nate described you." She set a bottle of the house special in front of him. "Those men haven't done anything since they came in, like they're waiting for something. The back storeroom past the restrooms is open if you need it."

That would work, if he could get these men back there for a little talk. "Thank you, ma'am, and my apologies: things might get a little messy..."

"We're used to mess, and don't worry about the cops being called." She walked away, seemingly taking this all in stride. Just what kind of shennanigans did Eliot's team get up to around here? Shelley pretended to take a swig of the beer, and studied the men in the mirror again. He nursed the single beer for the better part of an hour, though the redhead, Cora as she eventually introduced herself, was quite adept at making it look as though he was ordering bottle after bottle and therefore, becoming a bit tipsy.

Outside, the rain began to lighten up, but the evening light had already given way to darkness. Time for the bedraggled "passerby" to move on. Shelley slid off his bar stool, deliberately swaying a bit as his feet hit the floor, as if he hadn't realized just how many beers he'd drunk.

He took his last bottle with him, gripped tight and held up against his chest as if he didn't trust himself not to drop it. He stood swaying gently for just a moment, ostensibly to get his bearings, then tripped and stumbled toward the back of the pub, where the restrooms were indicated.

As he passed their table, the Koreans' eyes tracked him, but the men didn't seem unduly interested, and didn't move to _keep_ him in their sights. Just as he passed out of the sightline of the bodyguard closest to the bathroom hallway, Shelley reversed the bottle in his grip and spun around, bringing the heavy end up hard against the base of that man's skull.

Even before the others could process this attack, Shelley grabbed a second guy by the back of his neck and slammed him face-first into the table.

That took care of the two men with their backs to him. The third man, further to his right, rose and reached into his suit jacket for a shoulder holster, but Shelley shoved Bottlehead sideways out of his seat into the third guy's legs. As the third guy stumbled backward, Shelley was already on the move around the table and had the man's arms twisted up and behind him, preparing to bodily shove him into the old man because any protectee worth his salt would also be armed and not rely soley on his bodyguards. But the man made no move to rise from the table, or reach for a weapon. He kept his hands in plain view and merely watched with dignified calm and no surprise at all on his face.

When Shelley paused, reassessing the potential threat, the man spoke, in slightly clipped, but impeccable English. "Where is Ford's _other_ little guard dog? I had rather hoped to discuss matters with _him."_

Shelley spared a quick glance around the pub, still shielding himself behind guard number three. Cora hadn't been exaggerating. The other patrons were looking on with interest but no one seemed unduly concerned by the sudden violence. It even seemed as though some currency might be changing hands. He really needed to have a talk with Eliot about the goings on around here.

Shelley made eye contact with Cora and she walked over to them boldly. To the old man, he said, "You are going to instruct your men to allow this lovely lady to disarm them without a fight. Your weapons will be returned when we have finished talking, as long as I am satisfied with your answers. Understood?"

Unperturbed, the old man merely nodded, remaining seated.

Shelley instructed Cora how to pat down and disarm Tableface and Bottlehead, who were too groggy and disoriented to put up much fight had they wanted to. He searched the third guard himself, then indicated the old man. "You, too."

Without comment, the old man gracefully rose from the table and allowed Cora to pat him down.

When all guns and blades had been secured by Cora in a lockbox behind the bar, Shelley indicated the passage to the back room. "Shall we?"

The old man led the way, followed by Tableface and Bottlehead, the former still trying to staunch blood from a likely broken nose. Shelley brought up the rear, frogmarching the uninjured third guard, still with his arms twisted behind him.

When all five reached the back room, Shelley released the third guard carefully, leery of backlash, but the old man merely waved all the guards over to sit at a large poker table. He remained standing, facing Shelley and seemingly not at all put out.

"You have a message for Ford's team, you speak to me." Shelley was certain the hacker must have this room fully wired, if not also the pub itself, so Ford was probably watching right now. It was creepier than even Orwell could have imagined.

The old man looked him up and down appraisingly, seemingly content not to begin with official introductions.

"Very well. I represent certain 'business interests' oversees. My clients have sent me here to...resolve...certain matters of a financial nature with Damien Moreau. Specifically, that he failed to present certain merchandise he had previously accepted payment for."

"Ford's team doesn't work with Moreau."

"We are aware. However, we are also aware he has recently escaped prison in San Lorenzo where he was beyond our reach. And we are aware he would like nothing more than to destroy those responsible for his imprisonment. My clients do not know of his current location, but they believe he will arrive here eventually."

"So, you were just waiting. This place is bait."

The old man inclined his head slightly. "My clients also believe Ford's team is responsible for the destruction of the merchandise. However, this will be overlooked if they stay out of our business now. Moreau ran with my clients' money after the item was destroyed. They want their _restitution_ from him alone. It is rumored he is in possession of something far more precious than that which was destroyed. My clients consider that item to be...acceptable compensation."

For all the indirect language he used, the old man was straightforward and Shelley could detect no misdirection in his words.

"I'll pass the message on. Is there anything else?"

"Tell Eliot Spencer, if he allows us to take this item as restitution and does not interfere, my clients will consider the _other_ matter between him and themselves as closed. A 'clean slate' if you will. He and his team will not be further bothered by us. However, if he does _not_ stand aside..."

The threat was left hanging.

"Fine. But wait for Moreau somewhere else. They, and I, will not allow this building to become the center of a war zone."

The old man inclined his head once more. "As you wish. It is not our desire to draw unnecessary attention." Without waiting for instruction, the old man slipped past Shelley to the door. He beckoned his bodyguards, who followed him out and back up the hallway without so much as a sidelong glance at Shelley.

Shelley followed on the alert, but the men merely gathered their weapons from Cora and walked out the door without a backward glance. Shelley didn't bother following them further. The small mess at the back table had already been cleaned up, and not one other patron spared him a glance.

He took a seat at the bar again and ordered one last beer from Cora, leaving a more than generous tip and an assurance that she would not be bothered again. He didn't pretend to nurse his beer as he considered how he should inform Eliot of this development.

* * *

Hardison gave a low whistle as he replayed the one-sided fight at the pub for the tenth or twelfth time. "When this is all finished and we get Eliot back, we should hire Shelley. He could help Eliot fight out all his aggressions and maybe he wouldn't be so grumpy all th' time..."

"More likely, you'll simply have _two_ perpetually grumpy and very proficient hitters constantly threatening to break your fingers, instead of just one." Sophie didn't bother to open her eyes from where she reclined on the couch, behind Hardison's work table.

The evening sky had mostly gone dark by the time the team returned to the cookie-cutter suburban subdivision house Hardison had purchased for their temporary headquarters. Lucille had been stowed in the garage much earlier, and after viewing the events at McRory's, Nate and Parker had left in the Honda on a grocery run and to have, Hardison was certain, a completely non-verbal discussion revolving around whatever the hell they were thinking about Eliot that they wouldn't deign to share with himself and Sophie. Unless Sophie also knew what the hell was going on in which case, Hardison was definitely not okay with bein' the only one out of the loop.

That whole deal with the empty gun box back at Eliot's apartment, where Nate hadn't seemed at all surprised by Parker's revelation, was just...well, he didn't really know. It was like the two of them had come to some sort of conclusion about Eliot, but they were playin' it close to the vest and Hardison wanted to know just what, exactly, it _meant_. Because he had felt _something_ shift back there at Eliot's...he wasn't sure what, it was subtle. Much more subtle than, say, a _disturbance in the Force_ would have been. But something important had changed, and there needed to be a team discussion about how that might affect getting his best friend back to them safely.

"Hey, Sophie?" Hardison swivelled in his computer chair to address her.

She remained still, eyes closed as if she had fallen asleep there on the couch, but Hardison was sure she was merely waiting for him to continue.

He took a breath and plunged forward, taking refuge in the simple act of speaking as he tended to do when he wasn't sure just _what_ to say. Most times, simply rambling on worked to his benefit, either by throwing another person completely off their game, or by eventually coalescing into what needed to be said.

"That thing about Eliot havin' a gun... I mean, it's like Nate and Parker know something we don't, unless you do, too...an' anyway, they're havin' this whole angsty telepathic conversation and leavin' us out of it and...well, I know Parker has communication issues sometimes and Nate's just a control freak who only shares when it suits him...but it's like the two of 'em know something we don't and they're keeping it to themselves just like we all agreed we shouldn't do any more, especially if it affects all of us like this does...and now there's _Koreans_ involved, and Eliot doesn't even _know_..."

Hardison stopped, took a breath to start again, but realized he had lost any momentum he might have had. Nothing was any clearer to him now after his rambling than it had been before he started.

Sophie sat up though, swinging her legs off the couch and leaning forward to rub at tired eyes. She sat still for a moment, as if gathering her own thoughts before speaking.

"We all know Eliot has done some pretty bad things in his past, things he's not proud of. It's not really a secret, but he still prefers not to talk about it..."

To Hardison, Sophie sounded less than entirely confident, not at all how she sounded when coaching one of them through a grift, which made him feel miles better. It was like she was still trying to wrap her own mind around the big revelation in addition to explaining it to him. At least he wasn't the only one who had been caught by surprise.

"We also know going up against Moreau the first time was very hard on him. There are things about his time working for Moreau that he _never_ wants anyone to know about..."

 _"'Please don't ask me'..."_ Before he could stop himself, Hardison voiced the memory. He saw the hurt of that memory flit across Sophie's face, then she composed herself again. Hardison had still been angry and hurt back then, and the confrontation in the park had not registered with him quite the same as it had with the others. Not until much later, when Hardison's head was cooler and he could see things objectively again. And by then, they were on their way to San Lorenzo and there was no time to dwell on Eliot's words. Now though, Hardison remembered Eliot clearly, remembered the sadness in his demeanor...his terrifying lack of confidence, his _fear_ at possibly being asked to reveal the worst thing he had ever done, but standing steady and giving the team that choice anyway.

Suddenly feeling like a damned naive idiot, Hardison leaned forward in his seat, dropping his forehead to rest in his hands with elbows propped on his knees. He felt the weight of the day's events pulling him down, but he took a deep breath, pushing away the anxiety that threatened to well up. The feeling was all too familiar from his childhood: every time one of Nana's children had to leave the sanctuary of her home. Even when he was too young to really understand the nature of the leaving, he'd known he would likely never see that brother or sister again, or ever find out what ultimately became of them. Though he had known some for only a matter of days, he considered them all family, and he'd come to understand that, despite the fact Nana wanted to keep them all safe forever under her roof it wasn't her choice, or theirs, to make.

But _this_ was Eliot's choice, wasn't it? To leave _them_.

"Whatever he did for Moreau, it involved a gun...Nate said in the park he might have to be 'that man' again...and Eliot, he...he's applyin' _then_ to _now_. He thinks he'll have to be 'that man' to keep us safe? And he's never wanted us to meet him, _'that_ man'...he...he's not gonna want to come back to us when this is over, is he?"

Sophie's countenance showed nothing but compassion. "But you already knew that, didn't you? You didn't need me to tell you."

No, he didn't need her to tell him that. He had simply been denying it to himself. He had grabbed on to Eliot's promise to return, but now Hardison finally acknowledged to himself, the words on Eliot's recording had held an edge of finality.

This was so much more than breaking into a Steranko-controlled building to rescue Parker, so much more than helping Hardison maintain his ridiculous cover as the _Ice Man,_ more than just the cuts and bruises and broken ribs he regularly sustained to protect them...

Hardison remembered Eliot at the pool, so calm and collected in the face of such danger to them both. And the talk, much later, when Hardison realized just how much it had taken out of Eliot to stand by while he nearly drowned...Now Eliot was going up against a Moreau who could no longer be fooled, and he was fully prepared to die for them...no, not just that. He was _willingly_ delivering himself _to_ that death _for_ them...

But further meditation was cut off by the house's security system alerting them to the Honda pulling into the driveway. Hardison tapped a key and rolled the garage door up for Nate and Parker to pull in. They should have groceries and the agreed-upon Chinese takeout but right now, Hardison did not think he would ever be hungry again.

* * *

After purging the contents of his stomach more times than he cared to consider, Eliot dragged himself out of the bathroom and stretched out on the motel room floor, which was much more supportive than the sunken and sprung mattress had been. He had slept in much worse places, but he knew he wouldn't be sleeping anymore tonight.

His head throbbed and he felt feverish.

Parker had done a good job fixing him up after the carnival. He knew he didn't have any infection. He just wasn't resting the way he should be, to heal. The way he always wished he had time for when Nate got on a job bender. There was nothing he could do about that now other than ignore it.

The storm had moved on a bit, thunder still rumbled but it didn't crack and crash overhead as it had when he was violently woken earlier. Never one to fear storms, Eliot found himself unsettled as he stared at the gore-like stain on the wall, still not fully convinced he hadn't put it there himself.

There was a period of time in his life when he had stared at walls a lot. First, that horrid little cell: a gray expanse of cinderblock wall interrupted only by scratched-in tally marks that were at best a guess because he couldn't be sure he was properly marking the days...but even after that, back home, he found himself staring at a lot of walls, losing time.

It was something to watch out for, he was told. PTSD they called it. Survivor guilt, in his case. Because giving it a name, a _diagnosis,_ was supposed to be the first step in learning to deal with it. Learning to accept that you had done everything you could in the situation and realize that what happened wasn't your fault...that was all well and good but it didn't _fix_ anything, did it?

Because it couldn't bring his team back, it couldn't reverse time and stop the betrayal that ultimately killed them. It couldn't give him a chance to make things right. Nothing could. They had _offered_ an honorable discharge, making it sound as though he actually had a choice in the matter, but Eliot knew _who_ had set it in motion though damned if that man would ever be held accountable for _his_ actions. He was untouchable.

And it was probably Eliot's digging that got his team sent on the suicide mission anyway. At any rate, that king of all weasels had not been happy to see him alive upon his return. It had been clear, when Eliot finally escaped his captors and made his own way to friendly territory, that there had never been a rescue attempt made, that it was believed the entire team had been eliminated. It had been one of those deniable operations: failure was...well, it never happened in the first place.

So he'd been given a medal which on the surface, by the book, he more than deserved. But if they thought it would buy his silence, they needn't have bothered. Because one thing Eliot would never do was reveal classified information, even if he was assured of doctor-patient confidentiality, and even if it might have revealed a clusterfuck of the highest order.

It had been _recommended_ that he seek some sort of therapy, though the recommendation included a not-so-thinly veiled reminder that _nothing untoward happened during that mission, correct, Spencer?_

_No sir. What mission, sir?_

So Eliot tried the therapy they recommended, all of one group session before it became clear that the _civilian_ therapist he had been pointed toward had not a friggin clue how his soldier's mind worked. And it didn't help he couldn't speak in more than the vaguest terms.

So, he couldn't _actually_ say: _No, ma'am. I didn't do everything I could have, back then. I didn't fight hard enough to keep that weasel off my team, the one planted there by the biggest damned weasel of them all. And I didn't pay close enough attention to that weasel, and I let him sell us out, and I didn't fight hard enough to avoid capture, or work hard enough to effect an escape for my team, not until it was too late. And I_ didn't _die_ with _them. So yes, ma'am, it IS my fault I'm here and they're not, and no I don't think I should forgive myself._

So all he could say was: No, ma'am, I have no idea what career I want to pursue now I'm in the private sector, but I'm sure my dad's got an opening in his hardware store. No, ma'am, I won't be at next week's session. Yes, ma'am, when I'm ready to come back, I'll be sure to call.

 

Late into the night, Eliot simply listened as the storm raged itself out, and at some point, he must have drifted into an uncomfortable sleep, reliving mixed memories of his teams, past and present.

Morning dawned oppressive and heavy, with the promise of more storms. Eliot needed to move. Intellectually, he knew he should eat, but he wasn't even going to try it. He knew he was pushing himself into dangerous territory, but he had often accomplished more with less. He knew his limits.

His first stop was the corner convenience store for a terrible cup of coffee and the morning newspaper which he opened to the classifieds and saw the message he had been hoping he would NOT find.

* * *

"I'm tired of buyin' and destroyin' burn phones, Shelley. And if this call puts me on Hardison's radar, I'm blamin' you. Where's my team?"

"Good morning to you too, Eliot. Look, I am sort of in contact with your team so they're not completely missing but we don't have a lot of time until that hacker of yours figures out what I'm doing...Eliot, the Koreans are involved in this somehow."

Shelley tucked his new burner phone between his ear and shoulder, and turned a page in his own newspaper, taking the moment to scan his surroundings. Nothing amiss.

Eliot's pause carried the weight of consideration. "...Which?"

"What do you mean 'which'...you know, I don't need to know how you managed to piss off _South_ Korea. That'll be a story for another time. No, a _North_ Korean crime boss, didn't give his name, really has it out for _you_. Said he's not interested in your team, but he wants you to step aside and let them get some item as "compensation" from Moreau, because he screwed them over."

Shelley was certain he could _hear_ Eliot pinching the bridge of his nose. "Damnit. That statue really is cursed. How'd they find out about it?"

It sounded like Eliot might be talking to himself, but he wasn't making any sense. "...they didn't say. Eliot, what's it matter? They know, and they want it, whatever it is. What _is_ it, Eliot?"

There was another pause then Eliot spoke again, sounding rushed this time, and Shelley felt his heart rate tick upward. "Not important. You gotta find my team an get 'em out of Boston. _Today,_ Shelly!"

"Eliot? If North Korea's involved, shouldn't we bring in some extra help? Vance has resources..."

"Not Vance. We can't worry about it anyway. Moreau's the bigger threat."

Now Shelley began to wonder if they had taken a left turn into the Twilight Zone. He dropped the paper, giving up all pretense as he tried to reason with his friend. "North Korea's _not_ a threat? Look, I know you and Vance aren't very close any more but I think this can be considered a significant threat. He has resources..."

 _"Not Vance!_ It ain't North Korea as a whole, anyway."

"Eliot, do you realize how you sound? This has gone well beyond a simple protection gig!"

"Yeah, speaking of which, how did you manage to lose them after I warned you, huh? Ya really need help? Want an excuse to get your buddy involved? Have him use his satellites and figure out where Lucille went! Hardison likes to buy property. Look for recent quick home sales. Something with a garage big enough to hide Lucille!"

And with that, Eliot hung up. Shelley stared dumbfounded at his phone. Home sales?

He knew the mention of Vance wasn't going to go over well, but he had to try it. And this was getting much too big for just Eliot and Shelley to handle. Eliot was a man of few words, but he generally used them well. This conversation made no sense at all to Shelley and it was beginning to worry him.

And just who the hell was _Lucille?_

* * *

He hadn't been fair to Shelley, but the mention of Vance had made his blood boil.

_Unofficially, Eliot, I'm sorry. You don't know how much I wish things had gone differently. Officially, Spencer, talk to someone. Just remember: nothing untoward happened during that mission, correct, Spencer?_

_No sir. What mission, sir?_

Eliot crushed his empty coffee cup and dropped it into a trashcan. He felt like punching the can, punching the nearest telephone pole, punching the nearest _person_. He stopped for a moment, forced himself to take a deep breath, and another. He needed to calm down, remember to blend with the crowd. He would draw too much attention if he stalked down the street furious at the world. And he needed to focus for this next conversation. Something was very wrong here, but he didn't have enough information yet. The fact these particular North Koreans were _here,_ waiting for Moreau, was worrying enough. But that they knew about and were after _it,_ well...Boston could very well burn before the day was through.

Another deep breath then, satisfied that he was as calm as he could manage at the moment, Eliot once again keyed in a phone number.

She answered on the first ring, her familiar haughty and accented voice distinctly chiding.

"There was no reason to speak to my father in that manner, Mr. Spencer. He is a harmless old man."

"Yeah. I'm sure he's harmless as an entire pack of skinwalkers. An' if he's your _'father,'_ then I'm Gandhi's cousin."

"Believe what you will. Blood relation or not, family is important, no?"

Eliot stopped cold, replaying in his mind those words, scanning them for any intent, yet finding none. Still, they left him uneasy.

"Let's get to the point. Right now, I don't think you had anything to do with helping Moreau escape."

"Of course not. Why would I want him out when I have worked so long in trying to capture him? Long before your team ever become involved."

"Before _you got us_ involved, you mean. What I'm wonderin' is if you _knew_ he was gonna escape and didn't tell us. And the reason I'm wonderin' this is because I think you're after a certain something and you haven't been able to find it on your own, and maybe you were hopin' you'd be able to follow him _to_ it. How close am I?"

Now, it seemed, was her turn for an uncomfortable pause.

"And if that were true Mr. Spencer, what then? Do you think I would leave a dangerous man like that to roam free?"

"No. I think you'd kill him once you had what you wanted. Or try to anyway. You think he is at his weakest right now, his empire splintered, am I right? And that you'd have just enough time to get rid of him once and for all before he pulled the scraps back together. You'd be wrong."

"And what is it you think I am after? You know I have been working with countries to have their artifacts returned and yet you have not revealed all the locations of Moreau's stashes to me. You still don't trust me."

"'Course not. You're driven by your own code. Much of what you do ends up bein' good, but there is a greedy little part of you that wants what you think Moreau has..."

"We _know_ he has it and we are not the only ones after it. Not three days ago, my men were engaged by an armed force during a raid. These were not Moreau's men. We believe they were civilians, but with military-grade weapons and training."

"Who?"

"The weapons were American, but the men had no identification and wore no insignia. They were all killed as were a number of my men. Whatever you may think of _me,_ Mr. Spencer, the men who were killed in this confrontation were doing their jobs, they had no vested interest in this. They were good honest men, fathers and husbands. Brothers."

"Then you have my condolences, but stay _out_ of this. That item is beyond the reach of anyone." It was the one thing that had caused Eliot the most worry _after_ they had put Moreau away. Eliot had frankly not given a damn what might happen to Moreau's wealth: it was all blood money as far as he was concerned. But until Eliot actually had that one particular item dealt with, he had prayed fervently that the particular stash it was in would remain unfound.

Eliot started to speak again, hesitated...He was not sure if what he was about to say would be a mistake but it felt right, somehow. There was no reason to let her run into another blind confrontation. Not after she had already lost so many.

"The North Koreans are after it as well. I don't know how they found out, but you don't want to run up against them. Listen, you're as well aware of the stories about it as I am. Whether you believe them or not, whatever happens to you if you go after the monkey, it's on your _own_ head."

Eliot hung up, and stared at the phone. His head still pounded, the sun hurt his eyes, but clouds once again were building on the horizon. Who had the Italian's people engaged? Who _else_ would know Moreau had the monkey? Specifically, who would _also_ have access to American weaponry and military training?

Who tipped off the North Koreans?

And just who had Eliot long suspected of being _in bed with_ the North Koreans?

That king of all weasels.

Could it be?

Could Atherton be behind all of this?

-TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, I am not making Eliot anti-military. He knows his experience stemmed from the corruption and greed of an individual, not the institution. Also, I am no expert in PTSD. I know only what I saw in both my father (Vietnam) and grandfather (WWII). Back then, this kind of thing "didn't exist" and you just sucked it up and went on with your life. Even now there is a lot of stigma attached, and not enough understanding of how soldiers especially are affected by it.


End file.
